One More Miracle
by bauble123
Summary: This mainly concerns Mary and John, and is set after Sherlock "dies". It's John coping. However, when one of Moriarty's disenfranchised loose ends decides to kill John, using Mary as leverage, Greg & Mycroft must step in to help. The facts are wrong: John meets Mary a year after this is set - call it artistic license. The story's quite fluffy, with horrific spates of "anti-fluff".
1. One: Back To Work

**One More Miracle**

_Note: Please please please do review! I want to know you guys still like this, where you want it to go and so on! Your input is useful! Help a poor author out._

**A quick Q and A, even though no-one will read this probably.**

**Q. Is this Johnlock?**

**A. No, it's mainly John and Mary. ****I could call it Majohn or Johnary I guess.**

**Q. Wait - is Sherlock even in this?!**

**A. Possibly not, though there is much remembering of Sherlock.**

**Q. The facts are wrong!**

**A. That's not a question but yes, I know that John and Mary don't meet for a year after this is set - artistic license. Anything else though, tell me.**

I walked into the office. It felt weird, going back to work. I took a few months off, you see, after what happened to Sherlock. I had to deal with it. But he's dead, and you have to move on, so I'm doing my best. It's not the same though. I couldn't stay in Baker Street any longer - not without him. Without Sherlock, that place is just full of ghosts...memories... I couldn't take it. I miss him. Sentimentality, he'd call that. He hated it, hated anything emotional, really. I remember him talking about it: "sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side." he said. I listened, and I suppose it was true, but the truth can't stop humanity.

A woman was sitting at the desk - not a woman I recognised. She was attractive, with high cheek-bones, short blonde hair and a slightly pointed nose.

"I'm guessing you must be Doctor Watson." she said, extending a slim, pale hand.

"Yes." I said, slightly confused. "But who are you? Where's Lisa?" Lisa had been the old office secretary. She had been friends with Sarah, and didn't like me that much after the whole Chinese Mafia thing. Thought I'd put her friend in unnecessary danger which, to be fair, is true. I still feel bad about that. Lucky I had Sherlock on hand to save the day. That won't happen again, though, not now. There I go again with the sentiment. I really ought to be less emotional, being an army man and all that, but I'm still as sentimental as ever. Sherlock would probably have had some witty comment to make about it...hah. But even if Lisa hadn't liked me, it was still disconcerting to be facing an unfamiliar woman the moment I walked in.

"I'm Mary." she said, smiling. "Mary Morstan. Lisa left a week ago - moved up to Norfolk with her boyfriend. I'm fairly new here - I was hoping you could lend me a hand."

"Of course." I replied, still a little disorientated. I shook her outstretched hand.

"Dr. Mettlesby has been covering your patients. He told me to send you straight to him. You know which way, don't you, Doctor?" she added. I nodded.

"John." I said. "Call me John."

I walked across to the door and, seeing there was no patient, pulled down the handle and entered.

"John! You're back then? Finally?" Richard cried jovially as I walked into the room. Doctor Richard Mettlesby, my colleague and non-mutual friend - as in he thought I was his friend, and I wished he didn't.

"Yes." I said drily.

"Well, well, isn't this a turn up for the books? I almost thought you weren't coming back!" He pulled me down into a seat. I winced; my leg had hurt me more since Sherlock... you know. I remember Mycroft divulging the truth of my psychosomatic limp: "you aren't plagued by the war - you miss it". True, true, absolutely true. And Sherlock's cases and chases had kept me there, still with the thrill of action in my veins. I recall, when I was still using my stick and had only just met him, jumping off the roofs of London, chasing a taxi and an innocent passenger. Who'd have guessed it was the cabbie, obvious though it was? Now, without that adrenaline harking back to the war, I was just a sad greying man with a limp, still crying over the death of a friend. A friend he had called "spectacularly ignorant", who had left a severed head in the fridge and shot at walls when he got bored. I smiled half-unconsciously.

"I understand you've been taking my patients while I was gone?" I coaxed him.

"Oh, yes."

"Mind, um, filling me in?"

"Oh, oh, of course. Mrs Grimaldi has got an infection in that gall bladder you suggested she had removed..." I listened for a while to boring medical talk, then collected Richard's pages of careful, close-written notes, and left. On the way to my room I passed the pretty new secretary - Mary.

"John!" she called out as I walked past. I turned.

"Yes?"

"We've arranged little party to go out for drinks after work today on account of your return. It'll be pretty pointless if you don't come, so what do you say?" She asked. There was hardly need to think; at last, something to take my mind off Sherlock!

"Of course." I said, smiling at her. "Sounds wonderful. I don't know many pubs, used to spend all my time at home with friends," Well, a friend, anyway. "So do you mind if I just kind of tag along behind you?" She beamed up at me and nodded her gold-dusted head. I shook her hand for the second time that morning, and walked off into a morning of patients with minor problems.

It was 12:00, my lunch break. I realised I had no-one to eat with, now Sherlock was gone. As I came into the waiting room, I saw Mary just swapping with the interim desk nurse. As she picked up her bag and made to leave, she noticed me.

"Doctor Watson! I mean, John - sorry. Are you off to your lunch break?" I nodded.

"Yeah. I've got no-one to eat with, though. I suppose that's what comes of being off for a month." I laughed.

"Well, you're welcome to eat with me. I'm usually lonely at lunch time. I'd be glad of the company." she said.

"Sure."

"You like Chinese? I know a great noodle bar just down the road."

"I love Chinese!" I cried, emphatically. "Shall we go?" We set off and the noodle bar proved to live up to expectations. As we sat at a little table, eating noodles out of boxes with chop-sticks, Mary asked me why I'd been off.

"Oh, you know. I had a close friend who died."

"I won't pry." She said, comfortingly. I was glad. I'd had nothing but questions about Sherlock after he jumped, and it was a relief to be back to something more normal. I thought, with a pang, of Sarah. This was just like how we'd met...at the surgery, a keen fellow medical practitioner, and a beautiful one at that. It always began with lunch dates.

"So how about you? How did you come to be working as a desk-nurse at our little practice?" I asked, abandoning my futile attempts at chop-sticks and reaching for a fork.

"Oh, you know. Lonely single girl, looking for a handsome doctor." she joked, a cheeky smile spreading on her face.

"Really?" I said, my voice edging upwards and laden with half-real sarcasm. "You surprise me. A pretty girl like you ought to have no trouble finding a man."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you? No-one seems to like me, though."

"Shame. You're awfully pretty, you know."

"Is that a chat up line, Dr Watson?"

"I'm not entirely sure, Mary. Would you like it to be?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out...but you can walk me back to the office, and I might deign to sit next to you tonight." she said, with a wry smile. I smiled back, and stood up, taking her hand.

"Shall we walk then, my dear Miss Morstan?"

"Oh course, good doctor." We walked together back up the road to the surgery, chatting blithely all the way. I could feel this was the start of something and, of course, that turned out to be right.

"If you put this ointment on it should clear up in a few weeks." I said, handing Mr Jones a small tin of herb-scented cream that would help with his embarrassing little problem. That was what you got as a GP, people's embarrassing little problems. He took the tin gratefully, and left. I shuffled his notes into a reasonable degree of order and filed them under J in my cabinet. I then locked the cabinet, and subsequently the door as I left my room. Mary was dealing with Mr Jones' next appointment, and I tossed my key onto her desk. She looked up, caught my eye, smiled, and then got back to her work, professional as ever. She was growing on me, I decided.

Mr Jones then left the surgery, and all around the waiting room other members of staff were coming out of their rooms, placing the keys on Mary's desk. I recognised most of them: Moira, a general practitioner in her early forties, who gravitated towards turtle-neck sweaters and long brown trousers; Richard, of course; two nurses and another doctor who was perfectly nice but whose name I continually forgot, like Sherlock and Greg - Greg Lestrade, I mean. I knew them all, actually, except for a dark haired woman who left before we went out, who I was later informed was a substitute while they found a replacement for Sarah, who had upped and transferred as soon as she realised I was coming back. That was a little disheartening, but I took courage from the number of "welcome back" messages and pats on the back I was given.

"Shall we get going?" asked Moira, hauling her bag up onto her shoulder. Mary stood up and locked the desk drawers.

"Sure." She said. "I've locked up the keys."

"Come on everybody!" cried Richard, striding out of the door. We all followed, me bringing up the rear along with Mary.

A couple of hours, and quite a few rounds of drinks later, we were all sat together at a table in a slightly swanky west end bar. I hadn't drunk as much as the others, not feeling quite ready to lose my head to alcohol. One of the nurses had fallen peacefully asleep against Richard. Mary was, I think, a little tipsy, but I hope her actions were indicative of how she really felt. She finished her fourth cocktail - a lurid pink frothy thing that she ought to have had the good sense not to drink, and grabbed my arm.

"Come on John." she said, pulling me along. "Let's go for a walk.

"He..hey." called Richard, who had been playing a drinking game with the nurses and a bottle of vodka. "D...don't shteal our John. Thish, I mean, this, is our welcome back party. You're...you're...noteven - not even drinking, John. It'sh okay, you know. I've been drinking plenty and I'm perfectly fine. Not a bit drunk..." He broke off, as his head fell onto the table and he began to snore.

"Right, Richard." I replied. "You're not drunk at all." He was going to wake up with a _dreadful _head-ache. I let Mary whisk me out of the door. We ran together down the road, and then leaned, gasping for breath, against a wall.

"I like you, John." Mary said. I smiled - that was exactly what I had been longing to hear.

"I like you too, Mary." I replied, breathlessly. She turned to me.

"I'm glad. I thought I was going to be very lonely here...but maybe not, now you're here." She took my arm again and we whirled back to the pub, her scarf flying and twirling in the breeze. Back in the smoky twilight of the pub, everyone continued drinking. As we arrived, Richard raised his head from his drunken stupor.

"What ha - ha' youshe two been d...doing?" He asked.

"Nothing, Richard, nothing." I said, grinning all over my face. I...drank a little more that night. I drank to forget, and to join in. By the end of the evening, when we were turned out, I was probably, like everyone else, a little bit smashed. We wobbled our way to our respective houses. Well, almost. Mary was quite blitzed, and was leaning on me the whole time. We gave our oyster cards at the tube - I had mine in my wallet, and I somehow managed to fish one out of the pocket of Mary's duffel coat. We were let onto the tube, which probably wasn't the best idea, really; the tube is dangerous, and we were, facing facts, drunk. She fell asleep against me on the train, and I took comfort in the soft warmth of her body against me, the way she was relying on me, and I had her full trust. I knew I had to keep my eyes open, so we didn't miss our station, and in a desperate attempt to try and stay awake, I began reading the adverts on the walls: fly emirates, McDonalds and so on.

After a while, the tube slowed to a stop at my station. I shook Mary gently.  
"Come on." I whispered. "It's time to get out." At least, I think that was what I said – it's all a bit fuzzy. It probably came out a bit slurred – I go like that when I'm drunk, apparently. She murmured something and stood up groggily, clearly unsteady on her feet. I gripped her around the waist, and helped her out of the carriage. I had no idea where she lived, and it didn't look like she was going to get there, so I brought her back to my place and put her in my bed. Then I lay down on the sofa and, tired and feeling the after-effects of alcohol, fell into a deep, drunken sleep.


	2. Two: Mary awakes

**Chapter two**

_****__Note: Please please please do review! I want to know you guys still like this, where you want it to go and so on! Your input is useful! Help a poor author out._

I woke up with a throbbing head-ache and a mouth that tasted as if it had gone mouldy in the night. After a moment of forcing my eyes open, I realised that I wasn't in my own bed, but instead lying in my pyjamas on the sofa under a blanket. That confused me for a while, and I sat there, trying to puzzle it out, when I remembered what had happened last night. That would be why I had a headache and my mouth tasted so terrible. It was a good thing today was Sunday, so we had no work. I walked around into the kitchen, walking into a wall in the process, and shakily poured myself a glass of water, before putting the kettle on for coffee.

As I was doing this, I heard small shuffling footsteps behind me. I spun around, to see Mary standing yawning in the doorway, still in her clothes from the night before.

"John?" She said, evidently much confused. "What are you doing here? Where is this?"

"It's my house." I said. "You were too drunk to get home, and I had no idea where you lived."

"Oh." She was quiet. "I don't remember much since getting back into the pub with you." I was glad she remembered that bit. Otherwise, what she said would have been meaningless.

I got out two mugs, spooned coffee granules and added the steaming water from the kettle, and milk, before following Mary into the sitting room with two cups of coffee.

She sat down on the sofa, and I sat across from her in the greying arm chair.

"Tell me exactly what happened." She said, rubbing her eyes and sipping her coffee. She pulled a face. "I do hate hangovers." She added.

"Well," I began. "We got back into the pub, and drank – a lot, in your case. Then we got turned out, and we ended up on the tube – you and I. You fell asleep on the tube." She groaned. "I know." I said. "But you did, and I had to get you out of the train, still a bit smashed myself. I couldn't get you home, because I had no idea where you live, and in any case I wasn't exactly in a fit state to get you there, so I put you in my bed and slept on the sofa. Then we both woke up. End of story." She nodded.

"Fair enough. Thanks for helping me out, John."

"Only doing my job." It was true. I couldn't have left her there, being the only one who had been anywhere near sober at any point during the evening, and she as helplessly hammered as she was. She smiled, and then thought about things.

"I have no clothes." She said, plaintively.

"Ah. That may be a problem. I can lend you some, if you don't mind dressing like a man – we're about the same height."

"All right. I don't have many other options." She conceded. She looked around for some topic of conversation, then picked a photograph up off the shelf to one side. It was in a plain wooden frame, and depicted myself, along with a man in a trench coat with a high collar, turned up against the wind, or, in this case, the media, and a rather ridiculous hat. "Who's that?" She asked, bringing the photograph down to where she sat. She turned it around to face me. I squinted at it, then realised who it was. "I think I recognise him from somewhere." She added.

"That's Sherlock Holmes." I replied. "My…former partner."

"You mean you and he were…?" She raised her eyebrows, and it was clear what she meant.

"No!" I cut in. "No, no. I'm definitely not gay." I was eager to clarify that point. "He was a detective – I was sort of his assistant. He saved my life numerous times, and the life of Sarah."

"You mean that woman who used to work at the clinic?" I nodded.

"Yes, her. We got tied up in a sticky situation involving Chinese mafia."

"Oh, right. That's where I saw him – on TV. He committed suicide, didn't he? Jumped from a roof." I nodded, slightly tearily; it hadn't been that long. Then she realised. "Oh… I'm sorry. That was a bit insensitive."

"It's okay. I need to get over it." I suppose my face must have given away how I was feeling inside, because Mary said hurriedly:

"Well, I'd better have a wash. Do you have a shower?"

"What?" My mind had been on other things. One other thing, anyway: Sherlock. I was picturing the moment in my mind. I stood there, on the pavement, listening in confusion to him speaking on the phone. I looked up. He was standing on the edge of the roof, precariously perched on the ledge, his high collared grey coat flapping wildly in the breeze of the high altitude. "This is my note." He said. And then he spread his arms wide, as if he were holding the weight of the world in them. And, in a way, he was. He held my world, and he was about to drop, to plummet, and shatter it into a thousand pieces. He was about to end my world as I knew it. I reached out a hand, as if I could stop him, but he was already leaning forward, his iconic coat billowing out behind him. And then he fell. I screamed his name - and I don't scream easily - but it was far too late. He had jumped, and soared, and in a moment I would discover he was dead, and he was never going to return. I dragged my mind back to Mary.

"Oh, right, a shower. Yes, sure. Um, I'll go and grab you some clothes and then I'll show you where it is." I rushed out and into my bedroom, where the covers were pulled back. It was odd, seeing my bed slept in, but not having slept in it myself. Ignoring it, I pulled open my drawers, rifling through them and pulling out a pale grey shirt, a green jumper and a pair of trousers. I bundled them up in my arms and took them into the living room where Mary stood, waiting.

"Here you are." I said, handing the pile to her. "The bathroom's this way." She followed me into the corridor and I opened the door opposite my bedroom. I pulled open the airing cupboard, found a couple of towels and put them on the radiator. "Turn the top dial to change the heat, and press the button below it to turn on the shower." I said.

"Thanks." She replied, dumping the clothing onto the wooden chair by the radiator.

"I'll leave you to it." I left the room, and heard her slide the bar into the lock. A few minutes later I heard the sound of running water. Clearly Mary was in the shower. Rubbing my head, I set out into my bedroom to play hunt-the-aspirin. Eventually I found one, and took it with a glass of water. Then I finished my coffee, took my laptop off the kitchen table and proceeded to update my blog.


	3. Three: Visiting People

**Chapter 3: in which John is visited awkwardly by Greg and visits Mary's house**

About ten minutes later, the door-bell rung. I got up and, as I walked to the door, I grabbed my dressing gown off of a hook in the hall, putting it around me and pulling the cord tight about my waist. I took hold of the door knob and wrenched the thing open. I swore as it stuck in the frame, but eventually managed to open it. Greg Lestrade was standing out on the landing.

"John!" He said, laughing. "Still not dressed? I marvel at you. And such foul language!"

"Come off it, Greg." I scoffed. "Come on in."  
"Charmed, I'm sure." He said, stepping into the hallway. As he came into the sitting room, I realised I could no longer hear the shower. I thought nothing of it, and put the kettle on, bringing out a couple of mugs.

"So what do you want?" I asked, conversationally, as I brought the tea through to Greg in the sitting room.

"Just checking up on you - you know, now you're back to work." I sat down.

"I appreciate it." I said, smiling. It was true. I was thankful for it. Greg was like a brother to me at that time, supporting me as best he could, and doing a lovely job of it. Mycroft did his best to do the same, but he was too cold and inhuman to understand or help me in any way - he was comfortingly like Sherlock in that respect. I humoured him, with his Friday fish and chips that he clearly detested. I liked watching that - it was a great payback for him kidnapping me all those years ago. The look of utter disgust that spread across his face and the ugly wrinkle in between his eyebrows as he stopped himself spitting out the food were hilarious. What I loved most of all, though, was the way he changed into a sickly sweet fake smile the moment he saw me looking at him. It was absolutely priceless.

"So how did it go?" Queried Greg, taking a swig of scalding tea - something about police officers gave them the ability to drink liquids that would burn the taste buds off of anyone else.

"All right. They had a party -" I broke off; Greg was looking in the opposite direction. "What is it-?" I began, then saw what he was looking at. Mary was standing in the doorway, dressed in my clothes, which were baggy but contrived to make her look adorable - like a small child looking all grown up on their first day of school. Greg turned to me, an incredulous look on his weather-beaten face.

"You've gotten over it quicker than I thought, clearly." He said, with a quick glance at Mary. "Who's your girlfriend?"

"She's not my girlfriend!" I protested. "She just…"

"Just?" Greg prompted, his eyebrows raised.

"We all got rather drunk at the office do last night." Mary put in. "John helped me out, actually."

"Take a seat." said Greg, indicating the space next to me on the sofa. It was remarkably like being interrogated, actually: this hardy detective inspector quizzing two people sitting opposite him, trying to explain themselves and prove their innocence.

"We went out drinking as a welcome back thing for John." Mary began. "We all got a bit pi – drunk, I mean, and I don't remember most of it – John had better explain."

"Everyone went home but Mary wasn't really sober enough to walk, and we got on the tube – I had to fish an oyster card out of her pocket-" I paused, as I realised Greg had no idea who Mary was, and vice versa. "Oh, this is Mary, Greg – Mary Morstan, the new desk nurse at the surgery." He nodded. "And Mary, this is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, an old friend." They mumbled hellos and shook hands. "So, anyway, Mary and I got on the tube. She fell asleep on the train, and when we came to the station I realised I had no idea where she lived, and she was too drunk to get there on her own, so I put her in my bed and slept on the sofa."

"I'm wearing his clothes because I hadn't a change." Mary chipped in.

"And that's _all _that happened?" Greg probed.

"Yes." We both said, defensively.

"Well," Greg said, standing up. "I'm glad you've found a friend, John. It shows you're getting over Sherlock." As he left, he called behind him. "You two ought to have dinner or something – you're a perfect match." My eyes widened as he slammed the door behind him.

"I suppose," Mary said, after he had gone. "I really ought to take you out somewhere, John, as a thank you for all you've done."

"If you're sure." I said, dubiously, though really I thought it was a rather nice idea. "But I must pay – got to maintain my soldier's honour, and all that."

"Soldier's honour? You were in the army."

"Oh, yes. Didn't you know? I was in Afghanistan." I paused, remembering how Sherlock had divined that the first time I met him. It was in a morgue, of all places, but very apt considering what we ended up doing together. "I was invalided out with a gun-shot in my shoulder and a tremulous limp." I added.

"You're quite the adventurous man, it seems. The army straight into detective work."

"That's me." I said. "Now then, where do you live? I'd better get you home."

"Just down the road from here, actually." She replied. "We can walk."

"Okay. Go and put your coat on, then, while I get dressed." I went into the bathroom and shaved quickly, dousing my face thoroughly with soapy water and dragging a comb through my hair. Then I walked across and into my bedroom and threw on a selection of clothing before picking up my shoes, lacing them and making my way into the hallway. Mary was standing there, draping a purple scarf about her neck. I took my coat off the hook and put it on, buttoning it up as I plucked my house key from the shelf on the side. "Let's go." I said, wrestling with the door. She laughed. I turned to her with an injured look. "What?"

"You…look….so funny!" She giggled "Fighting with that door, I mean." I caught the joke. I must have looked pretty ridiculous, grappling with an inanimate object.

"All right, all right, no need to rub it in." I said.

"Oh, don't look so desolate John. It was only a joke, though you did look hilarious."

"I'll bet I did. So would you, if your flat had a door that stuck. I'll have to talk to the land lord about it." We were walking down the road, and I watched the way her scarf waved about behind her in the wind. It looked awful; purple really wasn't Mary's colour. She'd look better in green or perhaps pale pink. "That scarf's a dreadful colour." I said. "You should get something more pastel."

"Look at you, the colour connoisseur. No, I know - it's hideous, isn't it? My friend Jane gave it to me, and I'm obliged to wear it since I don't have another." I decided, there and then, to get her a new scarf at the next available point. We reached the end of the road and turned left into another street, which we walked half-way down before Mary turned off into a pretty Georgian town house, the kind that, in London, get split up into a couple of flats. "I'm on the second floor." She said. "Come in for a cup of tea, won't you? You could even stay for lunch – it's half eleven already."

"Well, I don't see why not. I'm not doing anything. We need to discuss dinner plans, anyway." She took a key out of her coat pocket and let us into the house.

We walked across the hall and up a flight of stairs. There was a door at the top, bearing a large iron number three sign on it. At the other end was another door labelled as flat four. Mary went over and took another key out, turning it in the lock. There was a clicking sound, and the door came open an inch. She pushed it with one hand, and it swung open easily, with no sound at all, a far cry from my creaking door that fought back when you tried to open it.

"Some people have it easy." I said. She laughed a little.

"Indeed they do." I followed her into the flat. There was a small hallway, and Mary led me through a door on one side and into a spacious kitchen diner and sitting room combined. There was an oven, a side of work surfaces, a small table with four chairs around it and a pair of matching cream-coloured sofas facing each other over a pale wooden coffee table.

"So this is your house." I scanned the room. "Nice. I like the way it's all combined, not like my little separated rooms."

"Want the tour?" She asked. "I just moved in, and I'm always eager to show someone around."

"Sounds wonderful." I said, brightly. She showed me down the corridor and through the door at the far end. It was a large bedroom, with a double bed covered in a blue and white striped duvet and matching pillows. To one side were a chest of drawers, and a large wardrobe, to the other, an open door leading to an airy ensuite. It was just the sort of place I'd always wanted to live in. There were no bullet holes or yellow spray paint smiley faces on the walls and it was light, bright and airy, unlike the dark cramped rooms I was used to in Baker Street and, to a lesser extent, in the flat I was living in at the time. I was then shown into the other two rooms: a study area with a desk, shelves of books circling the walls and enormous bay windows, and a utility room with a washing machine and tumble dryer.

"It's a lovely place," I told Mary, truthfully, as we sat with cups of tea on the sofas in the kitchen. "Just the kind of place I've always wanted to live."

"I know, isn't it gorgeous? That was exactly what I thought when I saw it for the first time. I wouldn't have been able to buy it if it wasn't for the convenient demise of an old man who I helped out a bit with a generous will."

"My," I said. "How macabre."

"I suppose - but he was an awful old man, John, really. Used to growl at me. I had the gall to growl back once, and as a testament to my bravery he left me three hundred and eighty thousand pounds. I got a loan for the other five thousand."

"These things do cost a terrific amount of money, don't they?"

"Yes. It borders on being totally ludicrous." She took another sip of tea and pulled a face. "I must have accidentally put sugar in it." She explained. "It tastes grim. Do you want it?"

"Not after that damning description. Putting sugar in tea ought to be made illegal. Sherlock used to drink it black with two sugars – ghastly." I shuddered at the thought. I stand by what I said. I'm glad Mary doesn't take sugar, or our relationship wouldn't have progressed. I could deal with Sherlock doing it – I mean, if I could deal with him putting eyeballs in the microwave and keeping human remains in the fridge, I could take a little sweetener. But with a normal, nice person like Mary (no meaning of disrespect to Sherlock but let's face facts: normaland nice are not words one would use to describe him. Terrifying, ignorant, selfish and lazy: yes, of course, but not normal, and certainly not nice.) I could not have lived with it.

"Quite right," She said. "Sugar in tea is pure evil."

"So," I tried to continue conversation. "Where were you living before you found this place?"

"A fairly dingy couple of rooms in a Victorian terrace." She said. "How about you? Richard told me you just moved."

"Oh, I was sharing a bachelor flat in Marylebone." She visibly reeled as I said the name of the borough.

"_That _must have been expensive – Marylebone, I mean."

"Actually, it wasn't. Sherlock – the detective I flat-shared with – got a discount because he had made an arrangement for the land-lady's husband when he ended up with a murder charge."

"What, got him off it, you mean?"

"No. I thought that, too, when I was told. Actually, he ensured the man was executed." She laughed a little bit, nervously, but with a hint of amusement, nonetheless.

"How bizarre!"

"I know, isn't it?"

"Yes, very. Was the place nice?"

"All right. Quite dark though."

"So," She said, turning to face me. "What's it like flat-sharing with a famous detective?"

"Odd." I said. I thought about it. There were things about flat-sharing with Sherlock that must have been unique: his attitude when he got bored, lying like a toddler after a tantrum on the sofa and periodically aiming his pistol at the walls; his "experiments" involving horrible processes conducted on human remains – beating bodies with riding crops, heating eyeballs in the microwave, that thing with the index finger that neither of us ever mentioned (trust me, it was far too sickening for anyone to know about who didn't experience it) and all the rest.

"Yes," I repeated. "Very odd. He used to shoot things at times of boredom, and do experiments on human remains. The police did a drugs bust on him once-" She looked up curiously. "Don't ask why. I still have no idea. They were _very _confused by all his items. One of them insulted him," I smiled ruefully. "And that was how I was arrested." She was intrigued.

"What did you do?"

"I punched him in the face."

"Oh. I can imagine you doing that – you're the loyal sort." She had that exactly right. Mycroft had pointed it out when I first met him. When he _kidnapped_ me and I had to sit for ages next to that texting girl – Anthea or Andrea or whatever her name was. I am loyal. It comes from being in the army, I suppose. I'll lock on to certain people and stay loyal to them forever – Sherlock, for example – I mean, I met him in a morgue but nonetheless ended up sharing a flat with him and not betraying him to a man I thought was his arch-enemy but turned out to be his brother, and, of course, the Major. There's a brave man for you…the exact opposite of Sherlock.

"Yes. I am that. So, when are we going to dinner, and where?" I said, suddenly remembering that.

"I don't know. What evenings are you free?"

"Any time, really. Oh, apart from Fridays."

"Okay. How about Tuesday?"

"Sounds good. What time?"

"We finish work at six, so seven-thirty, perhaps – to give me time to get home and change."

"That sounds about right. I have to sort out all my beauty regimes, after all." I said, playfully.

"Oh, of course you do." She said, somehow managing to keep a straight face as she played along.

"Yes. So where do you fancy going?"

"Oh, I don't mind. I like anywhere, really."

"Well, as a tribute to our noodle lunch yesterday, I know a great place in Chinatown – sort of Szechuan cuisine."

"Oh – I love that kind!"

"I'll book us a table, then, for Tuesday at seven thirty."

"Perfect. Now, I should go change out of your clothing." She walked out of the room. I sat there slightly awkwardly, alone, and wondering why Mary hadn't been snapped up by the first man that saw her. She was beautiful, and funny, and had a sharp wit. How had no-one capitalised on this golden opportunity? Perhaps I was just the person she had been waiting for… Then Mary returned, and I left that train of thought where it lay. She was carrying a plastic bag, which presumably held my clothes, and was dressed in a pair of dark blue jeans and a pink top. I had been right; Mary did look good in pink. "Here are your clothes." She said, handing me the bag.

"Thanks. You look nice." I said, taking the carrier bag in one arm.

"Thank you, John." She smiled sweetly.

"I'd better get going." I said, standing up.

"Okay. I'll see you tomorrow."

"What? Oh, yes, of course. I'll see you at work." I stepped out into the hall and, putting on my coat as I walked, I left the flat. I was half-way down the stairs when I heard someone calling my name. I turned swiftly around and saw Mary standing in the doorway of her flat, holding a plastic bag in one hand.

"You left your clothes!" She called, seeing I had turned. After a quick detour to pick up the clothing, I finally left the house and returned to my own small apartment. After eating a hurried lunch, I sat down to check my blog. There had been a few comments on my updates from the morning which ran as follows (the updates, not the comments, which were mostly Harry, seemingly drunk or under the influence of something, anyway):

_Back to normality…or possibly not_

_Most people who actually know me will know that I was back to work yesterday. I wasn't planning to write about it, but I have decided I will add a bit. As you no doubt know, I've really been missing Sherlock. This is me trying to get back to a fairly normal life. Step one was moving out of Baker Street and step two was going back to work. It was a bit weird, being back, and I had my memory jogged a few times, but I managed to stay mainly in control, which was good._

_After work, it transpired that my colleagues had decided we should go out drinking as a "welcome back" thing for me. Needless to say, we all got fairly smashed. I ended up on the tube with the new desk nurse and I'm fairly sure some of my fellows don't remember getting home._

The comments were mostly from random people who I didn't know, though Richard, blast him, had put in a bit about how I didn't drink enough, and there was Harry's usual stupid splurge. That really irritated me – why could my sister not just ring me like a normal person, instead of writing all caps messages on my blog, outraged that she didn't know about my personal life, despite the fact that this was because she never bothered to actually ask me what I was doing?

I decided to write a new entry, on getting back my life. I began to type and ended up with this:

_If someone tells you it's hard to get back your life after someone close to you dies, they're probably telling the truth. However, one thing that really does help is constant support. I am lucky enough to have other people who are willing to help me, even though, according to Sherlock's paper on suppressed hatred in close conditions based entirely on my friends, they all apparently detest me. Greg Lestrade of Scotland Yard and Sherlock's brother Mycroft Holmes have both done their best to comfort me._

_Greg has done this quite successfully, by means of coming to my flat, drinking all my tea and coffee, talking vaguely about unrelated subjects and interrogating my guests. I'm grateful to him for that. It's genuinely helped me, even if he was a bit scary at times, and I can't find any tea bags. Mycroft has been doing regular meetings, and he's really trying. I know he secretly reads this blog so heads up Mycroft Holmes for trying to overcome your inhumanity, we know it's hard._

I quite liked it, although it was a bit lame, really.


	4. Four: Richard's Soup

**Chapter Four: concerning booking a restaurant, two instances of being late, lunch with Richard and a nosey old lady.**

After I'd finished that, I put on my coat, collected my wallet, and left to make a reservation, in person, at the restaurant in Chinatown: table for two, Tuesday, seven-thirty pm. I did this because it's quite hard to understand the proprietors on the phone – they have rather thick accents, and because they were less likely to lose my reservation if I made it in person. Also, I decided, the walk would do me good. I took the tube to Leicester square, and walked into the colourful streets of Chinatown. I was lucky: the restaurant I wanted was open on Sundays.

Huge crimson lanterns hung from yards of ribbon above me as I traipsed the small network of streets. I smelled the scents of roasting duck, fresh fruit and spices. It was tantalising to a wondrous degree. There were shops whose windows showed pictures of food, or ducks turning slowly on spits. Some were full of lucky cats, their gilded paws bobbing gently up and down in welcoming feline gestures. That reminded me of the case with the Chinese Mafia - the one that had all but destroyed my relationship with Sarah. Here I was, back in Chinatown, but this time, rather than coming to the end of a love affair, I was, I hoped, coming to the beginning of a new one.

I got to the restaurant and pushed open the red painted door emblazoned with golden Chinese characters at the top. I had no idea what they meant: whether they were a house number, a good luck message or a satirical sentence on the stupidity of westerners. Bells chimed as I entered. I walked past the ornamental pond filled with golden fish, the sunlight from the window high lighting their shimmering scales and loose, wafting tails. There was a young woman at the counter, in a high-collared black silk shirt, with slanted eyes and jet black hair pulled up into a tight bun.

"How may I help you?" She asked, in a voice that betrayed only the merest trace of foreign ancestry.

"I was looking to make a reservation for next Tuesday." I said. "A table for two, at seven o'clock. Do you have any spaces?" I waited tensely as the young woman typed in the details onto the small desk top computer that stood next to her.

"Yes, that should be all right." She said, at length. I breathed a sigh of relief. "Can I take a name?"

"Watson. John Watson." She typed in the name then pressed a button.

"Okay then, Mr Watson, you have made a reservation. See you soon!" She said, cheerily. I left, feeling at once excited and satisfied. Before going home, I made one last detour and emerged from a women's clothing store, bag in hand and a whole week ahead of me.

The next morning I awoke with an odd feeling of bliss. I spent a while wondering why and couldn't come up with a reason. Perhaps it was because of Mary. I couldn't tell. I dragged myself out of bed: for the second time since Sherlock died I actually had a reason to get up. I walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower. There was, I discovered when I got under the spray, a lot less substance in the bottles of wash product. This puzzled me until I remembered that Mary must have used them the day before. I used what was left and made a mental note to buy some more. Then I got out, dried myself and put on some clothes which I fished from my drawer. This was followed by a slice of toast and a cup of tea. Once the last drop of tea was gone, I collected my wallet and keys and put on my coat, leaving the flat and locking the door behind me. The door didn't stick as badly that day, luckily.

I took the tube to work; the part of London I lived in was a couple of boroughs away from the surgery. Mary, I presumed, also took the tube, but she was far more organised than me and so always ended up on a later train - until we got to a point where we left home together, of course, but that was later.

I sat on a hard, uncomfortable seat as the train jerked and jolted its way through the warren of tunnels beneath the city that made up the underground network. It was boring, to be honest. I'd read all the adverts a million times before and I had no-one to talk to. I looked across at the girl sitting opposite me. She had hair that was a mousy colour somewhere between blonde and brown, and was tied in a loose pony tail, accompanied by prominent brows and piercing blue eyes. She was dressed in a school uniform which comprised a navy blue jumper emblazoned with a huge crest on one side of the chest and a pair of black trousers. On her lap were a bright green rain coat and a school bag. As I watched, she pulled a book out of her bag and began to read it. From the cover splashed with images of fire and girls looking brave and heroic, I gathered it was one of the currently popular teenage dystopian books. The things usually came in series, and this one was probably somewhere in the middle. As she read, her eyebrows knitted together in an expression of deep concentration. All I felt was a sense of longing; why had I not thought to bring my book?

In a desperate attempt to pass the time, I took my phone from my pocket and looked on my blog, re-reading some of my adventures with Sherlock: a study in pink, the blind banker, the great game and all the rest. It was something of an experience, reading what I'd written about my own life with Sherlock. Now he was dead, I felt sort of detached – like that person who had written those was a different one to me. It was bizarre.

The tube stopped at the next station, and a few commuters got on. They wore suits, mainly, and carried tablets or briefcases. My work clothing only consisted of a shirt and trousers – nothing so professional – after all, a doctor dealing with the sorts of complaints patients brought to me needed to look friendly or they'd never confess their problems. The girl opposite me continued to read, unflinching as a black-suited businessman sat down next to her and pulled out his smart-phone, which he then stared at intently until we came to the next station, where he hurried out. I sat and watched the school-girl for another five minutes. After that, the train pulled in at my station, and I got out. She remained there, as the train rattled away through the tunnels. Her school must have been a really long way away, I recall thinking.

I checked my watch – five to nine – I didn't have much time. I ran along the platform and half-way up the stairs. My leg ought to have given out then - I should have stumbled, but I didn't because here, once again, was the thrill of the chase, and a stressful situation. I felt better than I'd done in weeks. Eventually I arrived, breathless and panting, at the surgery. I pushed open the door. Mary was sitting at the desk, watching me with amusement.

"What happened to you?" She asked, licking her fore-finger and flipping a page in the file she was holding. "Did you get chased down by wild dogs or something?" I stood doubled over, catching my breath, and then answered.

"No. Don't joke about these things, Mary. I'm just not very organised. I was a little late off the tube – I had to run." I moved over to the desk.

"No kidding." She said, smirking.

"It's not funny." I said, in mock hurt. "For all you know, my leg could have given way half way through."

"Did it?"

"Well, no. It's psychosomatic."

"Then," She paused, thinking about it. "Shouldn't it get worse when you're in a stressful situation?"

"You'd think so, wouldn't you? But, no: I miss the war – the action of it, the adrenaline, the danger – it's what I'm used to. I prefer it to the mundaneness of civilian life. It's like an old friend." Mary was staring at me. I couldn't tell whether her gaze was pitying or interested. "Can I have my key?" I asked, breaking the silence coarsely.

"Oh, yes, of course." She said, snapping to. She fumbled in the drawer for the key and handed it to me. I walked over to my room, calling over my shoulder that Mary ought to sign me in. I turned to look at my schedule, when I realised I didn't have one. Damn. Mary hadn't had time to formulate one; she was too busy gallivanting about with me. I sat down at my desk and twiddled my thumbs for a few minutes until Mary poked her head round the door.

"You should have a schedule by tomorrow." She said. "But for now I'll just tell you who you've got. Mr Ransby's up first. She leaned forward and muttered "It's a cyst on his you-know-whats." I bit my lip a little, but I was used to this: the number one rule of being a GP is dealing with any problems you're faced with, however unappealing they may be. I gave her a thumbs-up sign and she echoed the gesture back to me, and gave a friendly grin. I beamed back and she withdrew her head. I heard her voice from outside, and a moment later Mr Ransby, a middle aged man with a bald head and a dark beard, came shuffling in, looking sheepish and embarrassed.

"Mr Ransby. Take a seat…if you can." I said, my voice as reassuring and friendly as I could make it. He said he could and sat gingerly down on the seat opposite me. "There's really no need to be embarrassed about this, Mr Ransby." I added, smiling understandingly at the man. "Many men experience this sort of thing at some time in their lives." What followed I don't care to describe. It was a little, how shall I put this, sensitive. Mr Ransby was followed by Mrs Gordon, then seventeen year old Helen Steinbrandt. I worked through them and all the other patients that came to me that morning, no matter how unpleasant they were and, when my watch told me it was twelve o'clock, I was happy to take a break. I stepped swiftly out, hoping to catch Mary as she left, but she was nowhere to be seen. As I stood, looking around for my new-found friend, Richard came out of his room. I wasn't really paying attention, and didn't notice him until it was too late. He grabbed me about the shoulders with his huge hands (Richard was a tall, heavy-set man with thick, large limbs. In comparison to me, slight as I am, he was a giant.), and I couldn't get away.

"John!" He said, cheerfully. "You seem lonely. Come and eat lunch with me." It was clear that I didn't have a choice, so I followed him resignedly to a little Café on the corner of the street. We went in and he seated himself at a table for two, lounging happily in one of the chairs. I glanced about, hoping for any sign of escape, but there was nothing, so I sat down opposite him. "So, how was your Sunday?" He asked as I pored over the menu.

"Oh, fine, fine." I said, absently.

"I had _such _a hangover." He confided. "I didn't have the energy to do anything. How about you?" I looked up from the limited menu, having decided I would just stick to soup.

"I, um, did a few things, had a bit of a jaunt into china town. You know." I said.

"How are you coping?" The question came out of the blue. I was totally unprepared.

"What do you mean?"

"How are you holding up, John? After your buddy you know…" He did a sort of gesture, making his fingers into a stick man and jumping them off an invisible building. I had no idea what to say. What do you do in that situation – when an annoying man has just done an incredibly insensitive parody of your best friend committing suicide?

"Okay." I said. "I'm trying to move on. Greg's helping me."

"Greg? That police guy?"

"That's the one." A waiter came over and we ordered our food.

"You know, John," Richard continued, after the waiter had left and returned with our meals. The soup was greyish, thick, lumpy and extremely unappetising. I found myself craving the steaming noodles of Saturday's lunch with Mary. "I think you need to get over it, and I want to help you with that. Really, I do. So I thought maybe we could go out for dinner or something on Thursday." The insistent look on his face told me that there was no getting out of this.

"Fine." I sighed. "If you think it will help me." Richard gave me a slap on the back that was clearly meant to be congratulatory but was actually just bloody painful. I'm surprised he didn't knock any of my teeth out. I stood up, looking at my watch.

"It's about time we were getting back." I said, with a fake air of tragedy. Richard didn't appear to notice I wasn't sincere, and patted me on the shoulder, saying:

"It's okay, John. We can talk more often." I reeled from the pat on the shoulder; it was like being hit with a plank of wood, and mentally kicked myself for using that tone of voice, because now Richard wanted to talk to me _more_. At this rate, I was going to have to start hiding from the man. I won't bother describing the rest of the day at work – nothing happened. I didn't see Mary at all; Monday afternoons were her time off, though I didn't realise it then.

After work, I took the tube home. The carriage was busy, filled with commuters and teenagers going out for the evening, so I busied myself watching them and wondering what Sherlock would have been able to know about them from the same activity.

Once I got home, I found some pasta in the cupboard and, having over-boiled it, ate it with some shop-bought tomato sauce. It was okay, nothing remarkable. After that, I sat down and watched a little television before going to bed. All in all, it was a fairly mundane evening.

The next morning I got up, feeling dreary and morose. Throwing off the covers, I padded into the bathroom and got into the shower, only to realise that I'd forgotten to buy any more shampoo or shower gel. I seriously considered washing myself with the bottle of fairy I'd left on the side after using it to clean the toothbrush pot, but in the end I settled for rifling through the airing cupboard for a meagre bar of pinkish soap. I was as quick as possible, considering I had to wash with what was, in all honesty, not so much a _bar _of soap as a _sliver_. Once I had dried and dressed, I checked my watch.

What with all that searching for soap, I hadn't time for toast or tea, since it turned out to be twenty past eight already, and the tube journey took half an hour. There was just time to rush out of the door, lock it, then unlock it and rush back in for my wallet, before I had to run to the station, my unbuttoned coat flapping out madly behind me like a vampire's cloak. At the station, there was a long queue for coffee, so I had to forgo that as well. I got onto the train at the very last minute, right as the doors began to slide shut. As we trundled off, I saw a girl on the platform, watching the train go by with a terrified look in her eyes. It might have been a moment of madness, but I could have sworn it was the same girl from the train the day before. Actually, considering later events, it probably was her.

I got off the tube three stops later, frantically checking my watch. The hand was almost on the twelve, so I was forced, once again, to run helter-skelter to the surgery. I arrived a minute or so later, almost falling through the door. I made quite a clatter, and there were already a few patients in the waiting room, who stared at me as if I was some fiend dropped straight out of hell. Mary was looking at me, too, her stare half amused and half shocked. I pulled myself up with the help of a chair – it took some effort because my leg was jarring and my shoulder was in agony, thanks to my hitting the hard wood of the door in the exact spot of the gunshot wound from years ago. I eventually hauled myself into a standing position, rubbing my shoulder, which felt as if someone was sticking pins fresh from the fire into it. I moved over to the desk, where Mary was sitting.

"God, this hurts." I said, taking a sharp intake of breath. "Would it have killed you to help me up?"

"But you looked so terribly funny, John. And you were trying so hard. I'd have spoiled your effort." She said, sweetly.

"You'd have saved me a shed-load of pain." I retorted. "My shoulder hurts like hell. I was shot there, you know." Her eyes widened and she put one hand to her mouth.

"Oh God, John! I'm so sorry! I completely forgot. I should have remembered. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay Mary." I said. "You only knew by way of a passing comment. "Don't worry about it. I'll survive."

"All right." She still sounded unconvinced. I put out my hand.

"Can you pass me my key?" She opened the drawer and handed it to me, mumbling something. "Seriously," I added, trying to reassure her as I walked into my room. "Don't worry about it, Mary." I sat down in my chair. A second later, Mary's face peeped round.

"I almost forgot," She said. "Here's your schedule." I took it gratefully.

"Thanks, Mary. It'll be much easier now I've got that." I sat back down and flipped over the first page. First up was Mr Brosen, with a urinary tract infection. Fun. I passed the morning fairly uneventfully, and then left to go and have something to eat. I figured it wouldn't be the best idea to eat with Mary, since we were going out to dinner; I didn't want our stock of conversation dried up over lunch. I definitely didn't want to be accosted by Richard again, and forced to eat the muck from the corner café. That left Moira, with whom I found little to discuss, and the man whose name I couldn't remember. It looked like I was eating alone, unless…

I took out my phone and found Greg in my contacts. Then, my fingers moving rapidly across the screen, I texted him a message: _Greg. Lunch. What you having? You free? I'm lonely. JW. _A moment later my phone gave a buzz, and I turned to the screen. _Kind of busy._ Read the message. _Possible terrorist threat. Moriarty's legacy. Sorry, John. You're on your own._ I sighed. Well, that was it then. I went to the Costa on the end of the next street, and solved my problems with a coffee and a sandwich, eaten alone. There was a hot drink…that was some consolation at least. I occupied myself with watching the news on the television.

"The economy is taking a turn for the worse. Leading economists say it is only a matter of time before businesses begin to go bankrupt. And to add to all our troubles the pound is doing ever worse against the other currencies…" I tuned it out. Everything was bad news stories, nothing but grey and sordid, blood-stained images of the wizened, mangled bodies laid out in straight, straight rows. There I go, drawing on the wicked and the obscene. There's something about the horror of war that at once appals and fascinates me. I suppose that's why I ended up in the thick of it. I remember the day Sherlock and I began our adventures. We had been discussing my previous career – just like I had done with Mary a few days ago.  
"Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths." He said. I replied with something along the lines of yes, adding that I'd seen enough for a life time. Anyone else would have moved on, but this was Sherlock. He considered it for a moment, and then spoke. "Want to see some more?" He asked, simply.  
"Oh God yes." I replied. It was the absolute truth and look where it took me.

I came back to the surgery, not really looking around me. As I walked past the desk, something – someone – grabbed me by the arm. I spun around; it was, of course, Mary.

"John! Can we talk?" She motioned to Richard standing in the corner, her eyes showing everything.

"Oh course." I said, hurriedly. "Come this way, Miss Morstan, and we can discuss my schedule." She stifled a giggle and we both went into my office. I shut the door behind us, and leant against it, while Mary sat in my chair, spinning it idly with her feet pressed against the posts of my desks. I have learnt in recent times not to let Mary Morstan near my revolving chair. She fell off it the other day. I suppose it's what you might call consequences.

"So, are we still on for tonight?" She asked, coming to a stop.

"Of course. Was that ever in any doubt?"

"Not really." She consented. "But you are really unorganised, John. I was just checking you hadn't forgotten." She had a point.

"I haven't. I booked the place on Sunday, after you left."

"What presence of mind you have, good doctor."

"Indeed I do. I bought you a surprise and everything."

"Really? You must be pretty keen on me, then."

"Maybe I am. " I brushed aside the topic. "Now, onto the details. I booked it for half seven. When and where do you want to meet?"

"I'll come round to yours." She said. "It's nearer the tube station. I trust you won't want to fork out for a taxi."

"I'd rather not. Those things cost an absolute bloody fortune these days."

"That's right. I'll come round at about seven then, to give us time to take the tube. I should have enough time to get ready. Will that be long enough for all your beauty regimes?"

"I expect so." I remembered I needed to buy some shampoo on the way back. There was a co-op just by the station, where the road forked. I could buy it there. "Hadn't you better be getting back to work, anyway?"

"I could say the same to you." She chided playfully, but she left, and we passed our relative afternoons with, as far as I know, little enough event. My last appointment of the day was old Mrs Treffer, who was coming in now because her friend Mrs Ackrington had just been for her physio, and was waiting outside while Mrs Treffer had her bit done. They were going to spend the evening watching Downton Abbey, I was told. It sounded scintillating. As I re-tied the bandage on her swollen leg, Mrs Treffer continued her incessant conversation. I looked up, nodding, as she told me about her son's wife.

"She never does a hand's turn in that house." The old woman said, her nose bobbing in righteous indignation. She peered at me through her small spectacles. "You look awfully cheerful today, Doctor Watson. Got something special going on?" I smiled.

"Something like that."

"Oh do tell!" Like all old biddies, Mrs Treffer was hungry for gossip.

"All right." Truth to tell, I'd been longing to tell someone about my impending date with Mary. "You know the new desk-nurse, Mary." Mrs Treffer paused, thinking.

"Yes. She is a pretty one – her hair looks so nice cut short. I wish it had been fashionable when I was young." She sighed.

"Yes, isn't she? Well, she and I are going out for dinner tonight, my treat. I've bought her a present and everything."

"Coo-ee! You are a one, Doctor Watson. I'm glad. You seemed so down when I saw you last. And you two will make a gorgeous couple." I finished tying the bandage and stood up.

"Well, there's that done. And thank you, Mrs Treffer." I helped her up and we left the room together. I needed to help her sort out her next appointment, so I held her arm as she hobbled across to Mary's desk. I took a form and began to fill it out, while Mrs Treffer chatted away to Mary.

"Good luck tonight." Mrs Treffer said, nudging Mary. I winced. Mary rounded on me, eyes blazing and face stony.

"You told Mrs Treffer about it?" She hissed in my ear, so the old woman wouldn't hear.

"Well yes, he did." said Mrs Treffer. I saw Mary bite down on her lip. "I think you two will make a lovely pair. But if he takes things to far, just whack him, dear." The old woman continued. "It always worked for me." Mary gave in, then. Her face twisted into a smile, and she allowed herself the smallest of laughs.

"I'll be sure to do that." There was a sharp edge to her voice. Clearly she was still a bit pissed off with me, and would be willing to take Mrs Treffer's advice. I finished filling out the form, and showed it to Mrs Treffer. She was quite happy, and left. I handed my key to Mary, checking the time by the clock on the wall – it was six. I'd best be off.


	5. Five: A Date and a Paper Dragon

**Chapter five: which concerns a date with Mary, an old Chinese woman and a vivid description of John's nightmares**

_Please be aware there is war, death, killing and other things in John's nightmares - they are fairly graphic._

"Well," I said to Mary. "I'd better be going. See you later." She blushed a bit, and I decided that my work was done. Satisfied, I sauntered down the road and to the tube station, making a quick stop off to buy some shampoo and shower gel.

Half an hour later, I stepped out of the shower. My hair was clean, finally, and I dried myself off and then dressed. It took me a while to decide what to wear for such an occasion – did you go for something really casual or, at the other extreme, a suit? I ended up with a pale blue shirt and a pair of dark jeans. It was about quarter to seven. Mary still hadn't arrived. I checked myself: of course she hadn't – we weren't due to go until seven, ten whole minutes to go. I began to get nervous, and called the restaurant once again (I had done it once already) to confirm our reservation. They said, wearily, that they still had it. A few minutes later, the doorbell rang. I hurried to the door, collecting my coat as I left. I yanked the door open, and saw Mary standing on the door step.

"You're early." I said, surprised.

"Well, I thought maybe we could take a look round Chinatown while we were there; I haven't been there in ages."

"Sounds good to me." I realised, at that exact moment, that I had forgotten her present. "Just a minute, Mary! I have to run and get something." I turned around and tore through the flat, collecting Mary's gift from the kitchen table and returning to where she was waiting. She looked at the package curiously, but let it pass without comment.

"I notice you're not wearing your scarf." I said, as we walked together down the road.

"Yeah. You don't like it, neither do I, so what was the point? My neck's a bit chilly." She pulled up the collar of her coat, and I had to stop myself from laughing at the comical resemblance to Sherlock.

"You look ridiculous like that." I remarked.

"Whatever. You know how hideous my scarf was."

"I do, which is why I bought you this." We were in the tube station now, but the wind still howled through the cold corridors, down the escalators and around the tunnels. I reached into my coat and withdrew the package, handing it to her. She opened it eagerly, and laughed when she saw it.

"Normally men get women flowers or chocolates on a first date." She said, looping my gift around her neck. "But this will do fine. I needed a scarf, after all."

"You look dreadful in purple. The pink suits you much better." And, with that, we boarded the tube. The carriage was pretty much full. There were tourists going out to dinner, teenagers off home or to clubs, business men on their way to meetings and work functions and couples chattering away to one another. We were forced to stand, holding together onto a pole, with Mary's hands above mine. She smiled at me slightly awkwardly. "Not the most romantic of journeys, I know." I said, apologetically.

"No, it's okay – you've got to keep the realism in it, John." She said. I laughed.

"Right. Realism. That's what this is." I said, raising an eyebrow. She smiled. A few stops later we arrived at Leicester square and hopped out. I led Mary across the square flooded with tourists and through the streets of Chinatown. It was noisy and bustling, the streets full of people and scarlet lanterns fluttering above us. I checked my watch. "It's only quarter past, looks like we can cash in on your looking round idea."

"Oh, good!" She rubbed her hands together excitedly. "Let's go down here." She grabbed my hand and pulled me to a shop window lighted from within with white neon lights around the display, which showed the classic waving neko cats and concertina-folded golden and crimson dragons liberally sprinkled with glitter. "Those are gorgeous!" Cried Mary.

"They're only paper…but I suppose they are pretty." I was a bit cynical. I looked round. Mary was looking at me pleadingly, big blue-grey eyes looking like a cartoon puppy. I shut my eyes and tried to ignore her, but it was impossible. "Fine. I'll buy you one."

"Oh, John. I totally wasn't fishing for that in any way." She said innocently, with a cutesy smile. I was a little exasperated, I confess, but it was Mary, so I relented. I walked into the shop with Mary hanging onto my arm. There was an old woman seated behind the counter. As we came in she sat up and peered over the table-top at us. She beckoned us forward. She was a little intimidating, and Mary stood behind me. I don't know why; she's made of far sterner stuff than I am. I suppose she just did it to test me – to check if I could face up to a creepy old Chinese woman. I came up towards the counter.

"I was, um, wondering about the paper dragons in the window…" I began.

"Ah, you want one for the lady, yes?" The old woman interrupted, in a thickly accented, crackly cackle of a voice.

"Well, yes. How much do they cost?"

"I give you one for free. Because you come close to me. Most people, they are scared. They do not speak to me."

"Well, no. I don't think I could-"

"No. No." I was cut off mid-sentence for a second time. "It is not polite to say no. You take it." She hobbled over to the window and took a dragon from the display. I noticed her pronounced limp – it looked like it might be serious. She handed Mary the dragon, patting her on the back. "You love your man. You two be very happy, I say." As Mary made to leave, I pulled back to speak to the woman.

"Your leg," I said. "Does it hurt?" She nodded.

"Yes. But I have not the money for doctor."

"You don't have to pay for a doctor. We have it for free – on the NHS." I assured her. "Will you be here tomorrow, about half past six?" I asked.

"I am here always."

"Good. Listen to me. I'm going to come here at half past six tomorrow. I'm going to look at your leg, and I'm going to see if I can make it better, okay?"

"You are doctor?"

"Yes, I am. I'll see you tomorrow." I took Mary's arm and we left the shop. Back in the open air, she turned to me, dragon in one hand.

"Only you," She said, with a derisive upward twitch to the edge of her mouth. "Would end up offering an old woman in a shop unpaid after-hours treatment for a leg injury when buying a woman a paper toy on an evening out."

"It was the least I could do, after she gave us her blessing and a free paper dragon."

"Most people would have just thanked her and left, you know."

"I couldn't do that. It would be dishonest."

"I know. You're not like other people, John. You have to help everyone. It's weird, but kind of cute, too."

"Gee, thanks, Mary. I'm 'cute' now."

"It was a compliment. Now shouldn't we be going to dinner?"

"Oh, yes, right."

A few minutes later, we were seated in the little restaurant, menus in hand. Mary was fiddling with her chopsticks. She picked them up and was using them like a pair of legs, walking them around the table. She took one up and prodded me with it.

"Hey, stop it!" I chided, picking up one of my own sticks and poking her with it. She laughed and jabbed me back, driving the point into my arm. "That hurt." I said, slightly irritated, and hit her with my chop-stick again. She took up the other one and held them in front of her like a pair of samurai swords. We fought foolishly for a while, and then a waitress came up.

"You are ready to order?" I bit my lip and caught Mary's eye.

"Can you give us a minute?" I said. The waitress nodded, walking away. "Mary!" I scolded. "We've not even _thought _about what we're going to eat."

"Here's an idea." She said, conspiratorially. "How many numbers are there on the menu?" I looked.

"Two hundred and thirty three."

"I vote we pick, say, four or five numbers randomly and just order them. Let's not even bother if we know what they are – just get them, and then eat them, whatever they are." I wasn't sure.

"What if we get something horrible?"

"Then…we can leave it."

"Fine." We chose four numbers and ordered them. When they came, we surveyed the array. There was half a duck, with pancakes – that was a lucky guess - and a dish of little chewy brown things strewn with chillies that Mary declared were absolutely definitely "beef". I wasn't sure I agreed with her on that. Then came a steaming plate of thick noodles in sauce and mixed vegetables. That was a good call, and Mary began eating them immediately. Our last choice, however, was not so successful. It was a selection of squishy grey and pink things that came in a thin yellow sauce. Mary poked one with a spare chop-stick; I swear it quivered. The waitress returned.

"You are enjoying your meal?"

"Yes, thank you." I said. "Only we were wondering what these are." I indicated the _things _in yellow sauce.

"Brains." She said, as she left. Mary pushed the plate towards me. I pushed it back.

"Brains." I repeated. "I knew this was a silly idea, Mary."

"But the rest is nice."

"Yes, but _brains_."

"Oh, shut up about the brains and eat what you've got. She folded up a pancake with nothing in it. I was about to remind her they were for putting duck in when she stuffed the papery bread product into my mouth. I choked a bit, but just about managed to swallow it. I was incapacitated with it for what felt like ages.

"You had no call to do that, Mary."

"Well if you won't be quiet and eat, I'll have to make you, won't I John?" She mocked. She can be a right devil, my Mary, but nonetheless I love her. I can't think why. We finished, and I paid. She didn't even offer. To be honest, I was glad. I hate it when you have to go through that whole bill dance thing and you know you're going to have to pay in the end, but they insist in acting as if they were actually going to spend the money themselves. I'd rather they just got on with it. We took the tube again. It was still busy, somewhat expectedly. It was about nine thirty when we got back to our station. I walked past my own house and round the corner to where Mary lived, walking her right up the stairs to her flat.

"See you tomorrow." She said, as we stood outside the door. "I had fun tonight, and we got a little more that we bargained for. I've never been on such an interesting date, certainly not one where I've accidentally ordered brains and the person I'm with has offered an old crone health-care. It was great." She leaned towards me and planted a kiss on my cheek, then turned the key in the door and was gone.

I walked back down the road like a man in a dream, my head full of nothing but Mary: her derisive laugh, her quick wit, the down to earth aspect of her, her mischievous smile, her angular beauty, the scent of her perfume, the touch of her lips, soft and warm, on my cheek… And that night, for the first since Sherlock had died, the dreams didn't come.

After the war, I had night mares for months, ghastly, horrendously graphic things. They had left in time, but Sherlock's loss had somehow resurrected them, stronger than ever. They always came in sequence:

_It was the day Jenkins died. He was just a lad, not twenty one, and yet he was on the front line of the battle. The Taliban had mounted an attack, and it was bloody and brutal. I stood crouched in the ditch, my case next to me, ready to do my best for the casualties of the fight. Then they brought Jenkins down. He couldn't move much, and was carried, dripping blood, to the ditch. They laid him down in the dust. He was bleeding from a series of violent, jagged slash wounds on his stomach. They were leaking grim fluids, and it looked as if he had been dipped in all the most sickly colours of the child's poster paints mixed together. As I readied myself to see if I could help him, he coughed, a retching, dreadful thing that spewed out blood and flesh and fluid in equal measure. I surveyed the wounds. There was nothing I could do. He was going to die, and soon, and in agony. His friends turned pleadingly to me. "Is there anything you can do?" They asked, frantic. But I shook my head, because, though I wished I could help, I was helpless. He turned his head towards me, the slowly dying soldier. _

_"I'm goin' t' die anyway, doctor. I'd rather it was less painful." He looked imploringly towards the gun that lay by my side. It was against marshal law but still by far the kinder option. I looked towards his friends. They nodded resignedly. This was a choice, a test. It would define how a dying man and two erstwhile young soldiers saw life and me forever. One of the young men turned to me and spoke._

_"Not with your gun. They'll know it was you." He scrambled up the edge of the ditch onto the battle-field and returned with an Afghan gun in one hand. He gave it to me. "This one will do you fine. You're a crack shot. I've seen you. Do it." I looked at him, and the other man._

_"This goes nowhere." I said. "It's illegal." _

_"I know." said the other young man. "But it's for the best. I'd rather Tom died quickly than in pain. I think we all would." It was true. I took up the gun, stopping my hand from shaking, and cocked it, aiming directly for the place I knew would kill the man instantly, and with virtually no pain. Shutting my eyes, I pulled the trigger. The shot rang in my ears. I heard the snap as it pierced the bone. One of the soldiers tossed the gun up over the edge of the ditch. Leaning down, I put my fingers to his neck. Nothing. Not a beat. "Is he…?" asked one of the men, quietly. I nodded._

_"He's dead." I whispered._

_"It wasn't you that killed him, not really. It was the Taliban. You just sped up the process in a merciful way." One of the men said, trying, unsuccessfully, to reassure me._

_Then it was a different day, and a different place. I was walking down a dry road with a patrol. I'd been with them for a while and we weren't comrades but friends, too, now. Baines pulled the beret off of Nick, the youngest of the group – only nineteen. Baines put the hat atop his own, making a tower of it. Nick reached up one long arm and plucked the hat off Baines' head, placing it on his own and straightening it. He laughed, and took Baines' and put it on top of his. They carried on for quite a while, swapping and stealing hats, until the lieutenant turned around and snapped at them to quit it._

_Then along came the woman, weeping, with the young man holding her. She was swaddled in layers and layers of shawls, and was crying uncontrollably, rocking back and forth in unbridled grief. She was leaning on a young man for support. He was tall and assured looking, and kept one arm tight about the woman, who I took to be his mother. They approached us, and the woman straightened up a little, pointing and garbling something in the guttural tribal dialect of that area. The son nodded, and looked up to us._

_"My mother," He said, in reasonably good English. "She is sad because my brother is ill. She think he is dying. She tell me to say do you have doctor, army men?" _

_"Yes." said the lieutenant sharply. _

_"Will he help my brother, your doctor?"_

_"I don't know. Are you willing, Watson?" The lieutenant asked, turning to me._

_"Yes, sir. I am. I think we ought to do what we can to help the people. You help the people by fighting, and I will help them by treating them."_

_"Yes. He will help you. Take us to your brother." The lieutenant said, relaying my message. The man nodded, turning to his mother and telling her our message, his voice deep and incomprehensible. She nodded._

_"This way." Said the man, and we followed him to a ramshackle hovel. He took us into a small room at the back of the house, though it barely qualified as a house, really. There were no windows, and it was dark. The man lit a candle which flared up, illuminating a little of the room. The sour stench of unwashed bodies and sickness was everywhere, overwhelming. I saw a body on the bed, half-covered by a filthy blanket. It moaned and rolled over a bit. "My brother." The man announced, gesturing towards the bed. The lieutenant turned to me._

_"Watson?" I snapped to._

_"Yes. The brother. If you'll just let me through-" I carved a way through the people crowding into the room. "A little space, please?" I said, slightly irritated. The people filed out. I approached the bed, kneeling down beside it. "Hello?" I looked closer to the prone body lying on the greasy mattress. "Hello? My name is Doctor Watson." The body mumbled something in his native tongue, and I realised I'd need a translator. I stood up and leaned out of the door, where the man from earlier was standing. "Can you help me? I need a translator." I said. He nodded. _

_"I will help. You are doctor, and you help my brother, so I help you."_

_"Thank you." We went into the room. "What's your brother's name?" I don't remember the name. It changed from night to night - once his name was actually Sherlock, which is ridiculous. It varied. But the man told me the name, and called his brother. The brother groaned and tried to sit up. "Can you ask him where it hurts?" I asked, tentatively. There was a brief exchange between the two Afghans._

_"He says it hurts him…" The man didn't know the word. He gestured to the side of his body, spreading his arms from the shoulder to the leg. I nodded. Then I came to the bed. I twitched back the covers, and gasped in horror. The whole of the man's side was completely discoloured. It wasn't bruising; no bruising was ever so awful. It covered all the variations it could, ranging from shades of red and blue and purple to lurid greens and yellows. Hesitantly, I reached out a hand and touched it, feeling the spongy, waxy textures of it. It looked like a rash, but had raw, rough parts to it, and nauseatingly waxy bubbles. I shuddered. _

_"Can he turn over?" I asked, making a rolling motion. The man said yes, and said something to his brother, who obliged and turned, agonisingly slowly, over onto his side. Then I realised. This man was dying, and he wasn't going to recover; the whole of the back of his side had been eaten away by some kind of bacteria or insect. I explored further into the wound and, to my horror and, terribly, not to my surprise, found a pile of squirming, wriggling maggots. I pulled back. _

_"Your brother…" I said, to the man. "There is nothing I can do. He is going to die. I can ease the pain, but nothing more." _

_"Easer pain?" The man questioned, confused._

_"Make him feel better." I simplified._

_"So he die?" _

_"Yes. I can't stop that. But I can make him feel better."_

_"Thank you. We see him. We think: he die, but maybe the doctor help him. You help him. You make him feel less hurt. That is good. Thank you." The mother returned, and the son spoke to her. She moved towards me and grabbed onto my shirt.  
"Thank you…" She whispered. Then she said something. _

_"She say you do your best. She say you help us. Thank you doctor. You are very good man. God bless you." The mother walked over to the bed, to speak to her son. She said something, then let out a blood-curdling wail. _

_"What? What is it? What's wrong?" I asked. The other son rushed over, as his mother collapsed into him. I was getting no answers. I moved over. The son was still warm, lying on the bed, but I could see something was wrong. I put two fingers to the vein on his neck. He was dead. I felt awful. I had not even had time to give him any relief from his over bearing pain. _

There are more, but at that one I usually woke up, in a cold sweat, moisture dripping down my forehead, whimpering a little: embarrassing, but true. But that night they stayed away. Mary was, it seemed, having a good effect on me. What's more, the next morning, I was actually on time for work, having caught the tube early in a fit of uncharacteristic morning happiness.


	6. Six: Lewd Suggestions

**Chapter six: in which John kisses Mary, is forced out to dinner with Moira and is accused of "suggesting lewd thing"**

_Please be aware this chapter contains some adult themes_

I walked through the door into the office to see Mary at the desk, with Richard leaning over her, talking. I found myself smiling: the paper dragon the old woman had given Mary was sat on the desk. Richard was, it appeared, admiring it. I slid over to them.

"So where did you get that, Miss Morstan?" Richard was asking.

"Oh, uh, around, you know." She mumbled, trying desperately not to let out our secret.

"It looks like one of those from Chinatown - oh, hallo John." I saved Mary just at the last moment.

"Hi, Richard, Mary." I said, nodding to each in turn.

"I'm amazed." said Mary.

"Really, why?" I asked, knowing full well the answer.

"You're on time – for once."

"Oh, yes, I suppose I am."

"Well there's a turn up for the books." cut in Richard. I winced – he had no idea what we were talking about.

"Oh, can you pass me my key, Mary?" I asked, rapidly changing topic.

"Of course." She opened the drawer and retrieved the key, handing it to me. I took it, and nudged Richard.

"Shouldn't you be getting into your room?" I asked him, a barely disguised jibe. "It _is_ almost," I looked to my watch. "Five to nine."

"Oh, is it?" Richard picked up his key and hurried inside. There were a couple of patients in the room but no doctors. I knew them – one was my own, and the other was blind. I put a finger to my lips in gesture to Norman (the patient) and he tapped the side of his nose, knowingly. Then, all possible problems covered, I leaned in and kissed Mary on the cheek. She flushed bright pink.

"What the hell was that for, John Watson?"

"It was payback. You kissed me last night, and I hadn't a chance to return it, so here's my kiss." I didn't wait for her reply, just slunk away into my room, hoping she had wanted my unsolicited gift and it hadn't been annoying or unwelcome. The day passed in an unmemorable stream of patients. At six I left, and took the tube off to Chinatown for the second time in two days.

I rushed through the streets, a spring in my step at the thought that soon I would be occupied. I was so pre-occupied I barely noticed the gorgeous scenery, and simply made straight for the little shop. Pushing open the door to a jangling of bells, I looked around. It was ill lit and smoky, as it had been last time.

"Hello?" I called.

"Hello." A voice came from the back of the room. It was dry and husky, thickly accented: the old woman, evidently. "Who is it? You want buy dragon?"

"No. I'm John Watson – the doctor who came to visit you yesterday, you remember? You gave me a dragon for my…friend, and I promised to come back and look at your leg."

"Oh, the doctor. Yes."

"Do you have anywhere with better light?"

"Yes. This way." I followed her hunched figure through to a small room with a battered arm-chair, futon and a gas cooker. I glanced around, taking in the peeling paint and weathered carpet.

"You live here?" I asked, as she seated herself in the chair.

"Yes."

"Right." I knelt on the floor, hardly caring about the layer of filth that covered it. "May I?" I gestured to her trouser leg.

"Yes." I nodded and rolled up the grey fabric. I shuddered a little; her leg was swollen enormously and oozing a putrid yellowy-green liquid. It reminded me sickeningly of the man in Afghanistan who I couldn't save. I searched it for the source; a long cut on the back of the leg came to my attention. I reached forward and teased it apart. No. I couldn't tell what it was, but it was bad. This was beyond GP services. "I'm going to refer you to the hospital." I said. "To an expert in infection. Do you have a phone?"

"Yes." She relayed the number to me and I noted it down on my phone – smart phones, what did we do before them?

"Ok. I'm going to call you soon, ok? I will make you an appointment at the hospital. Do you know how to get there?" She shook her head. I sighed. "Well, I'll take you there, then. For now I'll just give you some pain killers and wrap up the leg to protect it from new influences." I set about it, pulling the white strips tight about the swollen excesses. Then I stood up. As I made to leave, the old woman pulled me back down again.

"You are good man." she told me. "You be very happy. I wish you luck."

"Thanks. Now I'd better be going – rest your leg as much as you can." I stood up and fled.

I got home in the rapidly falling dusk and, having wrenched the door open, was forced to stumble around the place, fumbling for a light switch. I tripped over my lamp, knocking it into the wall. Eventually I found the switch and pushed it, surveying the carnage I had caused.

"Oh, god. Look at me. Not fit to live alone." I said. Once, it had been Sherlock making the mess. I was breaking down. I had been doing so well. I had been moving on, getting on with my life, working, meeting nice people, but suddenly all that was coming crashing down around me. I don't know what it was about my knocking over the lamp, but it was somehow the straw that broke the camel's back. I knelt down amidst the scene of destruction and the tears began to flow, hot and salty. It was then – it had to be then, didn't it? – that the doorbell rang. I said nothing, and did nothing, but whoever it was just pushed hard at the unlocked door and hauled it open. It was Greg, again.

He stood there, looking at me. I must have looked dreadful, sitting there, sobbing, in the middle of an untidy hall way. He stepped closer and put out a hand. He said nothing, but I was glad he was there. I get the feeling that if he hadn't turned up I'd have just sat there and wept for the rest of the evening. I don't cry very often, in fact I cry extremely rarely. But one way or another, it all just culminated in that moment, and there was nothing I could do.

I looked up and took Greg's hand, pulling myself upright. He led me, sensible and practical as ever, to the sitting room, sat me down and put the kettle on. I wiped my bleary eyes, and a minute later he returned with cups of tea. He sat down opposite me.

"Talk." he said, simply. "Just talk." I tried to keep my reservations, but in the end it all just flowed out, and I found myself telling my friend, the down-to-earth police inspector, all my thoughts and feelings. He nodded sympathetically at all the right intervals, sipping his tea in between times.

"Jesus, look at me. I'm sorry, Greg. I'm so weak. I-" I began to apologise the moment I had finished divulging my tale – it's something in my psyche, I suppose. I felt bad for having put him through all that.

"No, you're not. John, you lost your best friend. It's bound to take a while for you to adjust."

"I suppose…"

"No, no, I'm serious – what you're going through is probably totally normal. But really, I don't feel like I can leave you on your own in this state – wouldn't want you breaking anything else."

"Oh god, the lamp." I stood up, but Greg pulled me back down.

"Its fine – it's not like you use the thing anyway. It's just a remnant of stuff you used to own when you lived with Sherlock. It'll make you feel better to get rid of it, I expect. But seriously, John, I'm not sure I should leave you here. You might end up as a danger to society."

"No, I'm fine. Don't worry about me, Greg. I'll be okay. You have your own life to get back to."

"Yeah, my solitary life."

"That's the one."

"Are you sure?"

"Perfectly." I ushered him out of the door and went to the kitchen to make myself something to eat. When I got there, though, I realised I wasn't hungry. Nonetheless, I needed something to occupy me. I opened my laptop. My therapist had been right: writing a blog had helped me rehabilitate to life once before and now, maybe, it could do it again.

_So, you know how I said I was doing really well at getting my life back? Yeah…no. That's gone out of the window. Have you ever had that thing when something really tiny happens but it sort of snaps the string that's holding your life together and everything comes crashing down around you? Well, that's what just happened to me. All that happened was that I tripped over a lamp and knocked it over, and suddenly all my hard-earned calm was gone and I was sitting there in the mess, crying my eyes out. It had a certain nightmarish quality._

Then I went to bed, and really hoped no-one I respected read that blog. As I drifted off into sleep, I realised that Mary might see it, and fervently wished she wouldn't.

The next day, when I got into the surgery, I was captured by Richard, who dragged me kicking and screaming (okay, I actually made no sound but I was mentally kicking and screaming) into his office. He pushed me down into his hard chair. I found myself noticing it didn't spin. Goodness knows why.

"So, John." he said, excitedly. "You're still on for dinner tonight, right?" I sighed wearily; I had forgotten.

"Oh, right, yeah. Thing is, Richard, I'm a bit busy right now-"

"Oh no you don't. You are coming, make no bones about it. I've booked the table at Casa Millana." I tried to hide my disgust; I hated Casa Millana. Richard had suggested it for the Christmas party last year and we all went. It was awful: the food was tasteless at best and worryingly greasy at worst, the service was appalling – it took literally hours to be served – and the premises were not, to tell you the truth, very clean. I baulked at the thought, but I had no choice in the matter. Richard was adamant.

"Fine."

"Good. I'll meet you there at seven." I fled, grateful to be able to use my line of patients with embarrassing issues as an excuse.

That evening I washed and changed before leaving the house – call it common courtesy. Even for Richard certain rules apply. I arrived at Casa Millana and looked around for Richard. He was nowhere to be seen. As I stood, lonely and confused, my phone rang. I dug through my pockets in search of the thing and caught it just before it stopped ringing.

"Hello?"

"Oh, hi John. It's Richard."

"Really? Where the hell are you?"

"I'm really sorry but I won't be able to make it to Casa Millana. It's okay though, I've found a substitute." I was beginning to smell a rat.

"Who?" I asked, a little wearily, beginning to get the impression that this had all been a ploy.

"Moira."

"But-"

"No buts. In you go, John." He hung up. I listened for a minute to the flat tone, then switched off the phone and swore a bit under my breath. How could he do this to me? I mean, Richard was bad enough but Moira and I had no conversation topics whatsoever – I didn't even like the woman that much. Oh, god. This was going to be hell. I walked over and pushed open the door to the restaurant. I noticed someone seated at a table, waving frantically. I cringed. It was Moira. I went over to her and sat down.

"John! Finally you're here. I thought you were never coming." It seemed as if she had known I was coming and prepared for it. She was wearing not her usual turtle-neck and trousers but a low cut black top that showed off her meagre assets to the full degree. As I sat down, she leaned over to me and I was hit at once not only with an off-putting view of her bosom, but also with an over powering pungent smell; Moira was wearing more than a little perfume. I think that it was then that I realised what the whole thing was, but I refused to acknowledge it.

"Moira. You look," I sought desperately for a word, then said lamely, "Nice."

"Thanks. You're looking good yourself." She leaned in and stroked the side of my jacket. I shuddered. A waiter wandered over to us.

"Shall we order?" I asked.

"Sure. What are you having?"

"I think I'll have," I scanned the menu. "The tomato pasta." A pretty safe bet – you didn't want to eat meat at Casa Millana – god only knew what unspecified animal you'd be served.

"I'll have the same." I noticed she was wearing heavy make-up: dark eye shadow, mascara and cherry red lipstick. The waiter nodded and left. I sat there awkwardly. Moira turned to me. "So, John, how are you these days?"

"Oh, fine, you know how it is."

"No, really. How are you?" She put out a hand. I recoiled.

"Um…slowly recovering?"

"You poor thing." I had no idea how to respond. But I was saved in a way, because Moira quickly followed it up with: "I noticed you were pretty friendly with the new desk nurse."

"Mary? Yeah, we get on pretty well."

"You want to be careful about her." She leaned forward over the table-top. "She's a bit of a…" She raised her eyebrows meaningfully. I looked at her quizzically.

"You mean…?"

"She's an absolute slut and a whore – she sleeps around with doctors to get promotions."

"What, really? Mary?" She nodded. I wasn't sure I believed her; this whole thing was beginning to look like a set up. I felt as if I ought to make some small talk. "So, um, what kind of thing interests you, Moira?"

She reflected the question back at me. "What kind of thing interests _you_, John?" I thought about it.

"Well, I write a blog… I don't do much these days. I used to do crime solving with a friend of mine but he passed away."

"Oh, John, I'm so sorry for you." She put a hand on my shoulder. I wanted to run, but I knew I couldn't.

"How about you? It's only fair that you tell me your interests now I've told you mine."

"Oh, I collect Meissen figurines, but less about me, John, and more about you. I want to know _everything_." It just got weirder and more embarrassing by the second. "I heard you used to be in the army."

"Yes. I was a medic in Afghanistan."

"Why did you stop?"

"I got invalided out: a gun-shot wound to the shoulder and a limp."

"Oh my god! You poor thing!" She gripped me tight around the shoulders – a bad move; I mean, I'd literally just told her that I had a gun-shot wound there, hadn't I? I pushed her off, gently.

"It's really not all that bad." I ventured.

"Oh, but it is. You need someone to talk to about it. John, I'm always here." I was saved in the nick of time by our food. It was greasy and slimy, and so I tried to eat as little of it as I could whilst still seeming occupied enough that Moira would not try any more advances. It was hard. After ten minutes or so, I put down my fork. Moira clearly took it as a sign that she could begin talking again. I don't remember what she said, but it was fairly benign - though, I am sure, suggestive. I paid the bill and we left. We came to my flat, and Moira turned to me.

"Oh, John, I am simply _dying _for a cup of tea."

"Are you? Oh, well, I'll make you one then." She had clearly been fishing for it.

"Oh, you needn't – but that would be lovely." She followed me indoors and I put the kettle on. She left. I assumed she was going to the loo or something – I don't know, checking her coat or whatever it is women do. I finished making the tea and looked around for her.

"Moira?" There was no sound. I searched through the rooms, and came to my bedroom. It was the only place I hadn't checked, though it pained me to think she might have gone in there. I went in. She was standing by the bed. "Oh, there you are." I said, a little confused. "I've been looking for you. I've made the tea." I put out a hand and touched her gently on the shoulder in a vain attempt to guide her out of the room. She fell dramatically onto the bed, pulling me with her, despite the fact that I hadn't pushed her at all – I had only touched her lightly.

"Oh, John!" she cried, with an air of saucy shock. "I really wasn't thinking we would go that far tonight, but I suppose we could…" She pulled at the shoulder of her top, obviously with a view to removing it. It was all too much. I couldn't take it. I hadn't instigated any of this, and now here I was implicated in something with a woman I barely knew or liked. I rolled off of the bed and onto my feet; I can still do that manoeuvre without thinking about it, automatically, if you will – it's almost a reflex, a reminder of my army days.

"Stop!" I shouted. "Please, Moira, stop!" My hands were over my eyes at that point to avoid seeing anything explicit, so I have no idea if she reacted or not. "I'm in a damn relationship!" I yelled. I write damn, but what I actually said was a little more colourful. I checked myself. I had just admitted that I was in a relationship, but was I, really? Was what me and Mary had just a casual friendship, and a thank you dinner, or did the kisses take it up to a different level? I realised I had no idea. I was going to have to sort that out. Maybe I could invite her out on Sunday…

"John!" Moira was speaking with a tone of wounded femininity. "You – you _manhandle _me onto your own bed, and suggest lewd things-"

"Lewd things? When the hell did I suggest lewd things?"

"And then you tell _me _to stop it and announce that you're in a relationship?"

"I never-"

"Well, John Watson, I think that's taking things too far."

"What the-"

"Who are you in a relationship with, anyway? Richard told me you were single and in need of a nice woman to give you a bit of passion in your life." So that's what he'd said. "And I was kind enough to step into the bracket. You're a handsome man, John, very much so, but you're also extremely cruel!" She flounced out of the house, not giving me a second to answer her question.

I sat down on my bed. This was one of those things that needed thinking through. I sequenced it in my mind: first of all, Richard seemed to have told Moira I was fair game and would be allowing of her advances; then he had set us up a date, clearly telling her the truth but telling me that he was taking me out for dinner. God, I had been a fool, believing Richard. I'd been set up and implicated and – oh Christ, who was Moira going to tell her story to? I could just see her coming into work and telling half the world I'd sexually assaulted her. No-one would ever respect me again. And there was nothing I could do. In a vain attempt to clear my name, I wrote an entry on my blog.

_Absolving myself of blame_

_I thought that tonight I was going to go out to an inescapable dinner with a work colleague, who we'll call R. I arrived at the restaurant to find R was not there. My phone rang – it was R. He was unable to get there, and I was forced to eat with another work colleague he had found, whom for now we shall call M. I had never really talked to M before, and I didn't like her all that much, so I was slightly nervous about having to spend a whole evening with her. My doubts proved correct. She spent the whole evening asking awkwardly personal questions and telling me how sorry she was for me. She was also wearing some rather revealing garments which she used to disturbing effect._

_The evening got worse as it progressed. For one, the food was awful, and then events at my flat tipped it all over the edge. In fact, the whole reason I'm writing this is to absolve myself of blame for these happenings. I emphasise the fact that it was definitely not my fault and I began none of it._

_We got back to my flat – M had said she wanted a cup of tea – and I put the kettle on. M mysteriously disappeared. I found her a while later in my bedroom, whereupon I put a hand on her shoulder to guide her out. She fell (of her own volition) onto the bed, and accused me of doing something indecent, which I stress that I did __**not**__. I then discovered the entire date had been set up between R and M without my knowledge. In short, I had been played. I had been a tool. And then she left, and I sat down and wrote this._

That done, I went to bed.


	7. Seven: Two become one

_**Please be aware that this chapter again contains some adult themes (no description, just obvious implication for J and M)**_

The next morning I came into the office to someone avoiding me. I hate that – when people ignore you and pretend you don't exist. And it hurt me more than ever this time because it was Mary who was blanking me. She refused to look up as I came in. I was pained and thinking ceaselessly: had Moira told Mary? If so, what had she told her? Had she told her that I had…that I had tried it on with her? Oh, god…

I was angry now, really angry. What right had this woman to do this? Moira, I mean, not Mary. I had finally got my life back on track, things had been going well for me, and then suddenly all of it was derailed by a stupid madwoman in a turtleneck and Richard. Richard. The name whizzed across my mind, lit up in a thousand neon bulbs. I stormed across the waiting room and pushed open his door, hard. It collided with the wall in an immense crash. I saw faces peering out from the rooms around us but I ignored them. I hardly cared who saw - in fact, as far as I was concerned then, it could be as public as possible. Richard looked up, slightly terrified. He stood up, holding out his hands in a gesture of appeasement.

"John!" he said, his voice quavering. "John... No need to be hasty now. I can explain..."

"I should hope you can bloody well explain!" I was furious.

"John, John, calm down. I-"

"You set me up on a date with bloody Moira." I growled, my voice a low, angry whisper. I kicked the door behind me shut. "And then she accused me of doing god knows what to her and has probably told everyone this, including a woman I was hoping to ask out on a second date and who is now completely blanking me. I thought you wanted to help me, Richard. Clearly I was wrong, since you now insist on wrecking the new life I was beginning to build."

"John, please, I thought you'd like Moira. I wasn't to know it would end up like this!"

"You shouldn't have lied to me, then." I said, through gritted teeth. I had a sudden urge to hit Richard, to knock him hard against the wall and watch his eyes roll back in his head, but I knew that that was pointless; this was work, and I had to be forgiving. Richard was right. He meant well, he was just an absolute idiot. "Don't do it again." I left, the rage still pent up inside of me. I meant to go into my room and smash something – just a small something, but enough to relieve my wrath. This was not to be. I pushed at the door to my room with my shoulder and reeled backwards; the door was firmly, steadfastly locked. I swore at it under my breath and counted down from ten. I needed to calm down, just calm down. I punched the door once, with all my might, then walked over to Mary's desk, my whole being still tense. I put out a hand. She pushed my key across the desk without looking up.

I took them, scowling a little, and opened the door to my room, wherein I sat at my desk and rested my head on the desk, cradled in my arms. I would have cried then, I think, had my first patient not come through the door. I looked up and saw another sad, lonely person who needed my help. It was time to put aside my own problems and start to help someone else with theirs. I smiled weakly at the man, and motioned for him to sit down. "What seems to be the problem?" I asked.

It was my lunch break. I saw Mary leaving, and I swear she saw me too, but she made no response to it, just carried on walking. I raced after her and caught her by the arm, half way down the street. She declined to look at me, preferring instead the sight of the paving stones and her shoes.

"Leave me alone, John. You're a-a-" She sought desperately for the word.

"I know you want to call me names, you have every right to, but please, let me explain myself." I pleaded.

"What is there to explain? Moira told me it all, John." She said, bitterly, trying to twist away from me. I kept my grip firm and tight. "-that you…that you…what you did. How could you? I didn't put you down as that sort of person."

"I'm not that sort of person, Mary, I swear." I took a deep breath, and then asked, with great trepidation, "What did Moira tell you?"

"That you were foisting yourself on her shamelessly the whole night long and then you – you tried to…" She trailed off, unwilling to state it in public. "And I thought we had something, John!" she began to cry, quietly, and clearly not purposefully.

"That's not true." I said, frantically trying to get her to believe me. "Look, Mary, do you really think that that's me, that that's what I'd do?"

"No, John, but… Look, give me your side of the story, then."

"I thought I was going out to dinner with Richard – he invited me out on Monday and I couldn't get away – you know what he's like. And then I turned up at the place and he wasn't there. He rang and told me to go in there with Moira. I was reluctant, Mary, really I was but I didn't feel like I could leave the poor woman hanging. And then she started bloody flashing at me and pulled me onto my bed and I ran and told her I was in a relationship and… And she accused me of lewd suggestions and left in a huff and now she's telling everyone I'm a monster." Mary looked up. "D-don't cry." I said, seeing her tear-stained face. I fished a tissue out of my pocket and handed it to her. She took it and wiped her eyes.

"Thanks, John." she said, stuffing the tissue deep into her pocket.

"You do b-believe me, don't you?" She smiled.

"Of course I believe you. Moira's been desperate for a man for ages. Richard kept going on and on about this John Watson and how amazing he was and how she could step in and take you with comfort because of what happened to your friend. I think I condoned it, actually – I thought it would be good for her to get out a bit more. Of course that was then and I didn't know you were or that we…" I nodded; I knew exactly what she meant.

"Buy you lunch as a sorry?" I asked.

"It's the least I expect."

"Oh, is it now? I hope you're not going to be too expensive."

We had lunch and laughed a lot and enjoyed ourselves. I think it was then that I realised that I really wanted to take Mary Morstan on in a proper way. First up would be taking her out on a date… Sunday would do. Monday was a bank holiday, so she'd still have a day to do whatever it was she had to do. But then I came up against a problem: I was out of practice. I had forgotten what you did with women at weekends. Greg. Greg would help – goodness knew he had enough practice. Not that I could do that tonight – today was Friday which meant fish and chips with Mycroft.

That evening, at half six, I made my way to the fish and chip shop at which I was accustomed to meeting Mycroft. He was already sitting there when I came in – he was always one step ahead of me – still is. It's the Holmes way. He smiled fakely as I entered. Inside my mind, I laughed, on the outside I smiled like a normal, friendly person, which generally I'm not, but compared to Mycroft I definitely am. He was looking even more morose and expressionless than usual. I sat down.

"Something wrong?" I queried.

"Oh, nothing in particular. Your friend Mr James Moriarty left us with a lot to deal with at high level, that's all."

"Friend? I'd hardly call him my friend, Mycroft. He strapped me up to an IED."

"I suppose." The shop man brought us our fish and chips. I think Mycroft paid him in advance…or black mailed him – one or the other.

"What exactly did he leave you with?" I asked, as we ate.

"Oh, you know, odds and ends. Disenfranchised loose ends that don't realise he's dead. There's one…" Mycroft broke off.

"One…?"

"We just can't seem to pin point him. He's always just out of our grasp."

"Him? How do you know?"

"We assume-" he paused, thinking. He didn't speak for the rest of the evening. I sat in silence, watching him. I felt awkward and self-conscious so I left early. As far as I know, Mycroft just sat there thinking until the place closed. That's a Holmes for you. They couldn't care less about what the rest of the world think, just carry on moving along, solitary in their little bubbles of Holmesiness.

That evening, I decided it was about time I asked Mary out on a date – a proper one, I mean. Unfortunately, I realised, I was horribly out of practise. I had forgotten what women liked to do. I thought for a moment, running through the people I could ask: Molly was a woman, but no, not one like Mary – they were completely different kettles of fish; Mycroft clearly wasn't an option – the only woman I'd seen him consort with was that texting lady in his car; Donovan was a woman, too, but she hated me; Greg? Yes. Heavens knew he had enough practise. I texted him a message:

_Greg. I took you up on your idea to go out with Mary. She made me eat brains, so I want to go out with her again. Where do you take women on Sundays? JW_

A few minutes later the reply came: _You are a mentalist, John, but I'll help. You two make a cute couple. Where to take her… Women like galleries. GL_

I groaned; I hate galleries. _Really? _I texted back.

_Yes. _I sighed, and opened my laptop to look at some places. Mary was anything but old fashioned – something contemporary, then. The Tate modern. That would do. I looked up the opening hours. Google gave me the hours for Friday – not very helpful, but the gallery's own site told me that Sunday to Thursday it was open from ten am to six pm.

The next day I apprehended Mary during our lunch break. She looked up at me irritably.

"What is it John?" she asked, annoyed.

"I was just thinking we ought to make our relationship a little more along to the lines of serious. Do you want to go out with me tomorrow?"

"You mean as in on a date?"

"That sort of thing." I said, smiling.

"Sure. Where?"

"Well, I have it on the highest authority that women like galleries. I thought the Tate modern? It shouldn't be too busy on Sunday." Mary rubbed her hands awkwardly. I assumed it was just nerves.

"Uh, sure." she said, after a moment or two.

"Great. Meet you there at one?"

"Sounds…great." She hurried off to do whatever important business she had to do.

I spent most of Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning being excited about my upcoming date with Mary, and dreading it at the same time. I really, really hate galleries. They bore me half to death – especially modern ones. I mean, all I see is a messy bed or a pile of rubbish – what right do people have to tell me that just because it was made by people who call themselves artists it's art.

I met Mary at the gallery at one. She was looking beautiful in a dark green dress and a pale grey-blue cardigan. I couldn't help but smile.

"John!" She sounded delighted to see me. I felt pride swell up in me; this woman, this wonderful woman actually liked me…well, I thought so, at least.

"Mary! Shall we go in?"

"Sure." We traipsed around the exhibits for about three quarters of an hour and then, with a half hour break in the café that cost me – almost literally – an arm and a leg, we set back to it. All the pictures and sculptures blurred into one boring mess to me. I couldn't have cared less about them. It was when we got to the piece that was just a slightly rotten plank of wood, though, that I finally cracked. I turned to Mary.

"I'm sorry, Mary, but I really think I ought to tell you that I hate galleries and modern art; my feet hurt, my eyes are sore from the horrible colours and I'm gradually losing all faith in the creativity of humanity." I said. Mary looked at me with a face full of relief.

"Oh, thank god!" she breathed. "I couldn't have taken another second of this. I _hate _all this – I'd rather be locked in a darkened room with nothing and no-one for company but an incontinent Pekinese!" I stared at her and began to laugh. I couldn't help it. It was just so – so – so unbelievably perfect!

"Well, let's go." I suggested.

"Where?"

"Oh, I don't know… outside. We can join some random protest or something."

"Brilliant." We skipped out of the gallery and, to our extreme good fortune, found a protest march going down the street outside. We slipped into the line and walked with them, giggling intermittently. Twenty minutes later, and a few streets away, Mary nudged me. "John! What're we marching for?" I paused.

"I have literally no idea." I said, realising it was true. As I thought about this, my eye was momentarily caught by a man I thought I recognised – Richard? No. I knew it must be a figment of my imagination; Richard would never be protesting – it just wasn't him. It was then that a loud voice came through a megaphone.

"WHAT DO WE HAVE?" the voice yelled.

"GAY PRIDE!" the crowd chorused. I looked at Mary and Mary looked at me. We exchanged a glance that held everything of that moment. Smiles spread in unison across our faces and we both began to giggle. Mary grabbed my hand and swept me down into an alley way. We leaned against the wall, rapidly dissolving into laughter.

"W-we ended up on a gay pride march on a _date!_" Mary said, when she had her breath back. That set us both off again. Ten minutes or so later, I turned to Mary.

"Only us…" I said, and we did the natural thing following that which was, somehow, to kiss. A minute later we released one another.

"Let's go to my place." Mary suggested. "We can watch a film or something." We did that, and curled up together on the sofa to watch _When Harry Met Sally_. I can deal with a chick flick every now and then. At the end, when the two were reconciled, I found myself drawing comparisons between them and myself and Mary after Moira. Needless to say, we kissed with them at the end.

"Dinner?" Mary asked.

"I'll make it." I said, desperate to prove my worth.

"All right." she consented. I found pasta, garlic and chilli and decided to cook it all together. However, I think I underestimated the strength of the chilli, and put in yards too much salt. I made it, though. Mary took a bite and gagged, just about managing to swallow it. She poured herself a huge glass of water and drank it, desperate to get rid of the fiery taste of chillies and the pure grimness of the rest. "Oh, god, John." she said, when she had recovered. "You really can't cook, can you?"

"No, not really." I admitted. "I can even fail at making pot noodle." She laughed.

"How?"

"Easy. Fill it up too far."

"Right." We ordered takeaway pizza and ate it together on the carpet, picnic style, liberally sprinkling the floor with crumbs. We cleared away the box and sat comfortably on the sofas for some time, drinking tea and chatting about everything under the sun. We talked of shoes and ships and sealing wax, and cabbages and kings, as the saying goes. Eventually I finished my third cup of tea and put my cup down next to me.

"It's getting late." I said, standing up. "I ought to be going home." Mary cocked her head and listened to the tinny sound of the rain pelting on the roof, watching it as it trickled down the windows.

"It's chucking it down." she said, dubiously. "Why don't you stay over?" she asked, pulling me down onto the sofa next to her.

"Where?" I asked, worriedly. She looked around awkwardly and shrugged. "I'll take the sofa." I said, decisively.

"No, no." she declined. "I can't put you through that again." She looked at me and flashed me a smile, sharp and wicked. "Besides, the bed is lonely when you're on your own…" I caught the hint.

"What are you suggesting, Miss Morstan?"

"I think you know." I hardly needed that moment to consider. We hastened to the bedroom and I won't describe what followed.

When we had finished we both lay, still awake, next to one another on the bed.

"I don't think I've ever done that on a first date before." I said, pulling the duvet over us.

"Second, technically." Mary turned over to face me. "But no, me neither. I usually wait until I know it's serious… But somehow with you I feel like I'm more serious than I've ever been before." She blushed.

"Well, perhaps it's because we've already been through our fair share of troubles…you getting drunk, the brains at dinner, the old Chinese woman, Moira, the gay pride protest…" Mary stifled a giggle.

"I'm sorry I believed Moira." she said, suddenly serious. "I can see you'd never do something like that. I mean, you were too shy to suggest anything to me."

"Maybe that's just because you're so pretty you make me shy."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, John Watson."

"Are you sure about that?"

"It won't get you very far, then." she acceded. I smiled.

That night, I lay with Mary's blond head nestled on my shoulder. I stroked her hair idly, the gentle down-like texture of it silken on my caressing fingers. She was a lovely creature, so subtle and soft – like a duckling, I mused, or, in fact, more like an angel.

The resemblance of Mary to an angel has always struck me. She's exactly my childhood image of one – pale and gorgeous, witty and willing to help. Give her a pair of wings, I think, and they'd be recruiting her straight up to guard some marble halls. But Mary's not exactly an angel…I mean, I've always sensed this dangerous edge to her – a dark past hidden from me. I know it's all imaginary but I can't help thinking about it once in a while. I fell asleep watching her, and that night, instead of my usual nightmares of war and death and people I couldn't save, I dreamed of Mary and nothing but her.


	8. Eight: Enter Janine

We awoke next morning and lay in bed, drinking tea and talking. We didn't get up until half nine, at which point we milled around in dressing gowns while Mary put my clothing in the washing machine. She turned on the television and watched it for a moment, frowning, then changed the channel, switching over and over until she found something she didn't mind – a sitcom, I think it was, How I Met Your Mother or somesuch.

I was collecting our mugs from the bedroom when the doorbell rang. I froze in my tracks, listening alertly to the sound of the door opening and a feminine voice calling greetings. I strained a little to catch the words.

"Mary! I haven't seen you since last Wednesday! How are you?" I heard.

"Janine! Hey…" Mary sounded slightly awkward. Best if I remained hidden, I decided. I stood leaning on the wall, a mug in either hand, listening to every word of their conversation.

"You're really not dressed yet? Well, I suppose everyone is entitled to a pyjama day once in a while."

"It _is_ a bank holiday, Jan."

"I guess. How's work? That new doctor you were on about come up with the goods yet?" I cringed at the mention of me. It was the first time I had ever realised Mary actually thought about me, and talked to her friends about me. I think underneath my essential embarrassment I was secretly pleased that I was a big enough topic to be discussed with friends.

"John's not new; he's old - older than me…at work, anyway."

"Whatever. Anything come of that, anyway, Mary? You're skirting the question."

"Am I?" Mary said, innocently. I smiled a little – that was Mary. She never admits her faults, my girl. "We went out on Tuesday."

"I know – you told me that. Stop repeating things and tell me what you're hiding."

"We went to a gallery yesterday." Mary said, obstinately not revealing anything more. Janine evidently gave up.

"Have you finished that book I lent you?" she asked.

"Yeah. It's in my room-" Mary halted, grasping the fact that I was in the bedroom. But it was too late; Janine was opening the door. I stood petrified, backed up against the wall. Janine stared at me, wide eyed.

"Mary?" she called. "Who's this?"

"J-John." I stuttered. "I'm John. John Watson. I…" I must have looked a sight, stood there in the bedroom of a woman whom I was not publically romantically linked to. Janine looked scandalised. Mary rushed into the room, arms waving.

"Please, Jan, he's not…"

"I can see exactly what this is." Janine said. We both shrunk back. "You've finally found yourself a man, Mary!" she finished, running at her friend and hugging her enthusiastically. Mary looked totally astonished and then she began to laugh, relieved. "Now, I am simply _dying_ for a cuppa." Janine added.

"I'll put the kettle on." I said, hurriedly, and went off to do just that. I felt a bit self-conscious in just my dressing gown, so I changed quickly while the kettle boiled. A few minutes later, the three of us were sat round the coffee table with cups of tea. Janine looked us over, smiling wickedly.

"Tell me everything." she said. "I've seen some already and I'll tell _everyone_ if you won't tell me."

"We, um, went out yesterday." I began, uncomfortably.

"Yeah. And then we discovered that we both hate galleries." Mary said, helping me out. This was clearly going to be a combined effort.

"And then we joined a protest…"

"Which turned out to be a gay pride march." Janine started to giggle at this point.

"So we came back here and watched a chick flick."

"Which one?" asked Janine, curiously.

"When Harry Met Sally," Mary said. "But that's not important. John tried to make dinner."

"And I failed miserably, so we ordered pizza."

"Right. And then it was chucking it down…"

"And I swear I was willing to go home – I mean, I only live a few streets away - but Mary thought I ought to stay the night."

"And you tried to insist on sleeping on the sofa…"

"But you said the bed was lonely alone."

"And we…" Mary began.

"And we…" I echoed, blushing hotly. "Yeah. That's about it, really." Janine clapped her hands delightedly.

"You two are just too perfect!" she cried.

"We are?" we said, quizzically and in unison.

"You are! I knew you'd find a good one someday, Mimsy."

"Mimsy?" I queried, amused.

"It's what Jan calls me when she wants to annoy me." Mary replied, between gritted teeth.

"You bet it is."

"I might have to take that up."

Mary turned on me, furious. "You dare!"

"Okay, okay." I held up my hands in mock surrender. "I won't!"

"Good." Mary crossed her arms. "You don't want to know what I would have done to you had you decided to continue."

"Believe me." Janine added, a smirk twitching at the edges of her mouth. "She can be seriously _evil._"

"Well it's your own fault for calling me Mimsy, Jan."

"I suppose." Janine consented. "Now, John, tell me _everything_. I'm dying of intrigue."

"What do you want to know?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't know… Anything and everything: who you are, what you do for a living, why you're working with Mary, any hot friends you happen to have…"

"As to the first, I'm John Watson. I used to be an army doctor but-"

"Really? You're way more interesting than any of the other guys Mary's picked up so far." Janine said, leaning forward, interested.

"Hey!" Mary hit Janine playfully on the arm. "What are you saying – that I have no taste in men?"

"Up until this point, yeah," Janine agreed. "The ones before John were all awful – remember Joey?" Mary laughed.

"Yep. He was such an idiot. Why did I ever fall for him?"

"No idea. Carry on, John. You were in the army, right." she paused. "Wait, why did you stop being in the army?"

"I got shot in the shoulder." Janine's eyes widened.

"Damn! He's got a proper back story and everything, Mary – how did you net this one?"

"It happened naturally." I told her. "Stars aligned and fates crossed." Mary tittered. "As to the second, I'm a GP these days. I used to work as a bit of a detective. It was never really enough though, so I went back to practising medicine after a bit. I left for a couple of months after my friend committed suicide." I detected a slight waver in my voice. Mary put a hand on my arm. I relaxed at her soft, warm touch.

"You two must have been really close if you had to take time off work and everything."

"You could say that." I admitted. "We shared a flat, you see, and I think I might have been his first friend, if he'd class me as a friend."

"What, seriously? This guy was our age and had no friends?"

"Yes, exactly. He had acquaintances and enemies, mostly."

"People still have enemies?"

"Sherlock Holmes did, yes."

"Sherlock Holmes," Janine paused. "Wasn't he that hat detective?"

"Yes. That's the one."

"And you must have been… Mary! You got the guy who travelled round with the hat detective!" Janine was clearly excited. I laughed.

"Is that prestigious in your mind, Jan?" Mary asked.

"Of course," Janine said, with a shrug of her shoulders. "Now, I'd better be going. You two have fun." She pulled on her coat and turned to leave, calling over her shoulder as she did so, "And hold on to this one, M!" I left fairly soon after that, to go home and blog a little, just for the fun of it. I tried out numerous titles in the process.

_Repairing a broken heart __Learning to love again __When Johnny met Mary__Happiness Again_

_Untitled Blog Entry_

_So… I was informed by a friend that women like going out to galleries. I took that piece of advice and it turned out to be worse than expected, but somehow better, too. I asked a woman – she's remaining unnamed as is – if she wanted to go out with me and she reluctantly agreed. We walked around the Tate modern for a while, until my feet hurt and I was on the verge of turning to the wall and just dying there and then. I cracked, and told her how I really felt. And guess what? She felt exactly the same! It was almost like we were discovering new common ground every moment._

_We went and joined a protest then, only it turned out to be a gay rights one, which didn't help. Much giggling and – I have to say, quite some amount of kissing – ensued. This was followed by When Harry Met Sally – I can take a chick flick when I have to, right? All the best men can. I mean, someone has to act in the things; watching them is the least we can take. I won't describe the rest._

_What I was actually writing on here to say was that I think I may finally be recovering. I've experienced proper happiness again in a way that had been starting to become alien to me. It's a blissful, indescribable feeling, this. I'm going to do my best to hold onto this one – she is, as they say, a keeper._


	9. Nine: Wild Horses

I came into work the next morning to find Mary religiously avoiding making eye contact with me. Fair enough. I caught her eye for a single moment and we both burst into fits of giggles. A nurse, who was walking through at the time, gave the two of us a strange look. We pulled ourselves together. Halfway through the morning, I had a break in patients, so I went to the small kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. As I was waiting for the kettle to boil, the door opened and Moira entered. I looked around desperately for some means of escape but there was nothing. "Tea, John?" she asked. "Um, yes," I said, feeling my face flush scarlet. "You want some?" "Of course." I pulled out another cup and poured boiling water into both. At that point, just to take things to the extreme of awkwardness, Mary came in. "Ah, Moira," she said, brightly. "I've been meaning to talk to you – and you, John, as it happens. Tea?" "Um, sure." Another cup, another pouring, milk, sugar. "Sit." Mary commanded, imperiously. We both sat, as did she. "Actually, John," she said, reconsidering. "I think I'd rather talk to Moira alone." "That's fine. Can I have a word with you first though, Mary, about appointments?" I said, pointedly. "Of course you can." Mary replied, out of the smiling forcedly. We went out, shutting the door behind us. "Please promise me you won't do anything stupid, Mary. Moira was desperate." "Don't worry John. I won't hurt her." "Should I believe you?" "Nurse's honour?" "Doesn't work quite as well as soldier's honour, does it?" "No." She paused, thinking. "Well, then you can – you can – you can call me Mimsy if I lie to you." I smiled. "It's a deal." We shook hands. Then she went back in and I stood outside, tentatively, pressing close to the door to try and hear what went on. Unfortunately, Mary was speaking quietly. I moved back and leaned nervously on the desk. Five minutes later, Moira rushed out, avoided my gaze and ran into her office. Mary came out after, sipping a cup of tea. I pounced on her. "What did you do to her?" I hissed. "Nothing, nothing, John, I just told her your side of the story." "You didn't tell her about us, did you? Because I can tell you-" "No, no, John, I didn't." Mary said, holding out a hand. "Stop freaking out about it all. I swear I barely said anything." "Right…" I was still unconvinced. "I promise." "All right. I have patients to be getting back to now," I paused, and added, "Mimsy." She opened her mouth to begin to protest but I stalked away, gratified that I had got my own back on her. I found out no more about that until my lunch break, which I had been planning to spend in my office, eating what was left of the pasta I'd eaten the night before. I was, however, unexpectedly joined my Richard. He knocked on the glass, giving me what he clearly thought to be a friendly look, and waved a little. He looked like an absolute idiot but I didn't really have a choice in whether he came in or not because, as I was wincing in embarrassment, he pushed open the door and came in. "John!" he said, sitting down opposite me and pulling out a sandwich which reeked horribly of mackerel. "You eating in today?" "I suppose so." "Mind if I join you?" "Be my guest." I said, dryly, since he had clearly already made up his mind to do so. "Did you hear what the new desk nurse did to Moira?" "Mary? No." "Really? I thought everyone heard. Guess it was everyone but you." "Evidently. What happened?" "Mary and Moira were in the coffee room and Liesel and I were sat on the sofa – the one with the high back. They couldn't see us, but we could see them reflected in that big mirror." I nodded. "Yes. Go on." "Well, Mary pushed Moira against the wall, and said something to her – quietly, so we couldn't hear. And then Moira got all shocked and in a right state. She shoved Mary off and shouted 'you're the relationship?!' at her, really loudly. I have no idea what she meant." I did. I had every idea. What I didn't know, though, was what Mary had said, and that I had to find out. I caught Mary as she left, and accompanied her to the tube station. We got on together and sat down opposite one another. The carriage was unusually empty for that time of day. I turned to Mary. "What did you say to Moira?" I asked, coming straight out with it. "Whatever do you mean, John?" she said, innocently. "You know what I mean. It's the talk of the surgery. Richard and that nurse woman – Liza or whatever her name is – heard you. You said something to Moira, and she shouted that you were the relationship." "Oh, that." "Enough with the pretences, Mary, I know what Moira meant. What did you say to her?" "I told her," said Mary, brightly. "That you and I were together, and that we had sex in the janitor's cupboard." I stared at her in disbelief. "Oh, God, really?" "Yes." I sighed. "You really are a blessing and a curse, Mary Morstan." I said. "I know." she replied, sweetly, leaning over and kissing me on the forehead. I shivered involuntarily, a quick little jerk of my entire body. Mary looked at me, concern and surprise spread all over her face. "Are you okay? Do you not like being kissed?" "No, it's fine." I said, smiling apologetically. "I can't help it. I love being kissed – by you, anyway." Mary beamed at me. "You're sweet, John." "I aim to please." I winked at her. She giggled. An announcement came over the loudspeakers, a slightly cockney train operator telling us that we were pulling in – as if we didn't know that. We stood up, and I slipped my hand into Mary's as we stepped off the train and onto the almost empty platform. "It's funny," I said. "That whenever I'm with you I seem to be happier than any other time. Even on that short tube journey I felt that." "Me too," Mary confided. We walked together up the road, and I came to the door of her house, to drop her off. She kept a firm grip on my hand, and pulled me through the door. She dragged me up the stairs, to my constant protest, as I tried to wrest my hand from her grasp. I couldn't, which was odd, since normally I have no trouble. Mary was bizarrely strong. "My god," I said, as she yanked me through the door. "You've got a grip like an ox, Mary!" She looked startled, and let go rather suddenly, with a look on her face like a spy who's blown his cover. "Sorry." she mumbled. "I learnt it at the children's home." "What?" She probably hadn't meant me to hear, but my ears are keen and always pricked up. "I…" "Children's home?" I demanded. "It's a long story…" "We'll sit down, then." I pushed her into a seat and sat down opposite her. "Now, tell all." "My parents died when I was a baby," she began. "I don't remember them, lived my life in care homes, you know the drill." "How come you never thought to tell me this?" I asked, gently, putting a hand on her arm. "I… I didn't want to lose you." "What made you think that that could shake me off? I'm more persistent than that, Miss Morstan." I paused, and then remembered something from the books of my youth. "Wild 'orses," I said, imitating a cockney accent. "What?" she looked up, confused. "Wild 'orses," I repeated. "Could not drag me away from you, Mary Morstan." "Don't drop your aitches." she said. And then she stood up and embraced me, pressing me tight to her and nestling her head on my shoulder. "God, I never hoped for anyone as good as you." "The same goes for me finding you." I told her. She hugged me even closer. I did not go home that night. 


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